^  i 


n 

Ollilil  I  i 


1    iPlIrt! 


Melissa. 


BLUE-GRASS  AND 
RHODODENDRON 

OUT-DOORS  IN  OLD  KENTUCKY 


BY 


JOHN  FOX,  JR.      - 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

F.  C.  YOHN 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
NEW    YORK    ::::::::::::    1920 


r^^   -*.  f,"   '.^    •'•. 


COPTRIQHT,    1901,   BY 

CHARLES  SCRIBNEB'S  SONS 


JOSHUA   F.    BULLITT 

HENRY   CLAY  McDOWELL 

HORACE    ETHELBERT    FOX 

THE 

FIRST  THREE  CAPTAINS 

OF 

THE   GUARD 


-4 

1 


r 


Contents 

Page 

The  Southern  Mountaineer i 

The  Kentucky  Mountaineer 25 

Down  the  Kentucky  on  a  Raft    .     .     .     .  55 

After  Br'er  Rabbit  in  the  Blue-grass     .     .  77 

Through  the  Bad  Bend loi 

Fox-Hunting  in  Kentucky 123 

,    To  the  Breaks  of  Sandy 149 

Br'er  Coon  in  Ole  Kentucky 177 

Civilizing  the  Cumberland 207 

The  Hanging  of  Talton  Hall      ....  237 

I  The  Red  Fox  of  the  Mountains      .     .     ,261 

Man-Hunting  in  the  Pound 275 


List  of  Illustrations 

Melissa Frontispiece 

Page 

"Gritting"  Corn  and  Hand  Corn-mill       ...  i6 

The  rest  of  us  sat  on  the  two  beds       ....  io6 

Listening  to  the  Music  of  the  Dogs      ....  136 

At  the  Breaks 168 

"Go  it,  Black  Babe!    Go  it,  my  White  Chile!"    .  196 

The  Infant  of  the  Guard 234 

"Hev  you  ever  searched  for  a  dead  man  ?"    .      .  252 


The  Southern  Mountaineer 


The  Southern  Mountaineer 

IT  was  only  a  little  while  ago  that  the  materialists 
declared  that  humanity  was  the  product  of  he- 
redity and  environment;  that  history  lies  not 
near  but  in  Nature;  and  that,  in  consequence,  man 
must  take  his  head  from  the  clouds  and  study  himself 
with  his  feet  where  they  belong,  to  the  earth.  Since 
then,  mountains  have  taken  on  a  new  importance 
for  the  part  they  have  played  in  the  destiny  of  the  race, 
for  the  reason  that  mountains  have  dammed  the  streams 
of  humanity,  have  let  them  settle  in  the  valleys  and 
spread  out  over  plains;  or  have  sent  them  on  long 
detours  around.  When  some  unusual  pressure  has 
forced  a  current  through  some  mountain-pass,  the  hills 
have  cut  it  off  from  the  main  stream  and  have  held 
it  so  stagnant,  that,  to  change  the  figure,  mountains 
may  be  said  to  have  kept  the  records  of  human  history 
somewhat  as  fossils  hold  the  history  of  the  earth. 

Arcadia  held  primitive  the  primitive  inhabitants  of 
Greece,  who  fied  to  its  rough  hills  after  the  Dorian 

3 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

invasion.  The  Pyrenees  kept  unconquered  and  strik- 
ingly unchanged  the  Basques — sole  remnants  perhaps 
in  western  Europe  of  the  aborigines  who  were  swept 
away  by  the  tides  of  Aryan  immigration;  just  as  the 
Rocky  Mountains  protect  the  American  Indian  in 
primitive  barbarism  and  not  wholly  subdued  to-day, 
and  the  Cumberland  range  keeps  the  Southern  moun- 
taineer to  the  backwoods  civilization  of  the  revolution. 
The  reason  is  plain.  The  mountain  dweller  lives  apart 
from  the  world.  The  present  is  the  past  when  it 
reaches  him;  and  though  past,  is  yet  too  far  in  the 
future  to  have  any  bearing  on  his  established  order  of 
things.  There  is,  in  consequence,  no  incentive  what- 
ever for  him  to  change.  An  arrest  of  development  fol- 
lows; so  that  once  imprisoned,  a  civilization,  with  its 
dress,  speech,  religion,  customs,  ideas,  may  be  caught 
like  the  shapes  of  lower  life  in  stone,  and  may  tell  the 
human  story  of  a  century  as  the  rocks  tell  the  story 
of  an  age.  For  centuries  the  Highlander  has  had  plaid 
and  kilt;  the  peasant  of  Norway  and  the  mountaineer 
of  the  German  and  Austrian  Alps  each  a  habit  of  his 
own;  and  every  Swiss  canton  a  distinctive  dress. 
Mountains  preserve  the  Gaelic  tongue  in  which  the 
scholar  may  yet  read  the  refuge  of  Celt  from  Saxon, 
and  in  turn  Saxon  from  the  Norman-French,  just  as 
they  keep  alive  remnants  like  the  Rhseto-Romain,  the 

4 


The  Southern  Mountaineer 

Basque,  and  a  number  of  Caucasian  dialects.  The  Car- 
pathians protected  Christianity  against  the  Moors,  and 
in  Java  the  Brahman  faith  took  refuge  on  the  sides 
of  the  Volcano  Gunung  Lawa,  and  there  outlived  the 
ban  of  Buddha. 

So,  in  the  log-cabin  of  the  Southern  mountaineer, 
in  his  household  furnishings,  in  his  homespun,  his 
linsey,  and,  occasionally,  in  his  hunting-shirt,  his  coon- 
skin  cap  and  moccasins,  one  may  summon  up  the  garb 
and  Kf  e  of  the  pioneer ;  in  his  religion,  his  politics,  his 
moral  code,  his  folk-songs,  and  his  superstitions,  one 
may  bridge  the  waters  back  to  the  old  country,  and 
through  his  speech  one  may  even  touch  the  remota 
past  of  Chaucer.  For  to-day  he  is  a  distinct  remnant  of 
Colonial  times — a  distinct  relic  of  an  Anglo-Saxon  past. 

It  is  odd  to  think  that  he  was  not  discovered  until 
the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War,  although  he  was  nearly 
a  century  old  then,  and  it  is  really  startling  to  realize 
that  when  one  speaks  of  the  Southern  mountaineers, 
he  speaks  of  nearly  three  millions  of  people  who  live 
in  eight  Southern  States — Virginia  and  Alabama  and 
the  Southern  States  between — and  occupy  a  region 
equal  in  area  to  the  combined  areas  of  Ohio  and  Penn- 
sylvania, as  big,  say,  as  the  German  Empire,  and  richer, 
perhaps,  in  timber  and  mineral  deposits  than  any  other 
region  of  similar  extent  in  the  world     This  region  was 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

and  is  an  unknown  land.  It  has  been  aptly  called 
"  Appalachian  America,"  and  the  work  of  discovery 
is  yet  going  on.  The  American  mountaineer  was  dis- 
covered, I  say,  at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  when  the 
Confederate  leaders  were  counting  on  the  presumption 
that  Mason  and  Dixon's  Line  was  the  dividing  line 
between  the  North  and  South,  and  formed,  therefore, 
the  plan  of  marching  an  army  from  Wheeling,  in  West 
Virginia,  to  some  point  on  the  lakes,  and  thus  dissever- 
ing the  North  at  one  blow.  The  plan  seemed  so  feasible 
that  it  is  said  to  have  materially  aided  the  sale  of 
Confederate  bonds  in  England,  but  when  Captain  Gar- 
nett,  a  West  Point  graduate,  started  to  carry  it  out, 
he  got  no  farther  than  Harper's  Ferry.  When  he 
struck  the  mountains,  he  struck  enemies  who  shot  at 
his  men  from  ambush,  cut  down  bridges  before  him, 
carried  the  news  of  his  march  to  the  Federals,  and 
Gamett  himself  fell  with  a  bullet  from  a  mountaineer's 
squirrel  rifle  at  Harper's  Ferry.  Then  the  South  began 
to  realize  what  a  long,  lean,  powerful  arm  of  the 
Union  it  was  that  the  Southern  mountaineer  stretched 
through  its  very  vitals;  for  that  arm  helped  hold  Ken- 
tucky in  the  Union  by  giving  preponderance  to  the 
Union  sympathizers  in  the  Blue-grass ;  it  kept  the  East 
Tennesseans  loyal  to  the  man ;  it  made  West  Virginia, 
as  the  phrase  goes,  "  secede  from  secession  ";   it  drew 

6 


The  Southern  Mountaineer 

out  a  horde  of  one  hundred  thousand  volunteers,  when 
Lincoln  called  for  troops,  depleting  Jackson  County, 
Kj.,  for  instance,  of  every  male  under  sixty  years  of 
age  and  over  fifteen,  and  it  raised  a  hostile  barrier 
between  the  armies  of  the  coast  and  the  armies  of  the 
Mississippi.  The  North  has  never  realized,  perhaps, 
what  it  owes  for  its  victory  to  this  non-slaveholding 
Southern  mountaineer. 

The  war  over,  he  went  back  to  his  cove  apd  his 
cabin,  and  but  for  the  wealth  of  his  hills  and  the  pen 
of  one  Southern  woman,  the  world  would  have  for- 
gotten him  again.  Charles  Egbert  Craddock  put  him 
in  the  outer  world  of  fiction,  and  in  recent  years  rail- 
roads have  been  linking  him  with  the  outer  world  of 
fact.  Religious  and  educational  agencies  have  begun 
work  on  him;  he  has  increased  in  political  importance, 
and  a  few  months  ago  he  went  down,  heavily  armed 
with  pistol  and  Winchester — a  thousand  strong — to 
assert  his  political  rights  in  the  State  capital  of-  Ken- 
tucky. It  was  probably  one  of  these  mountaineers 
who  killed  William  Goebel,  and  he  no  doubt  thought 
himself  as  much  justified  as  any  other  assassin  who 
ever  slew  the  man  he  thought  a  tyrant.  Being  a 
Unionist,  because  of  the  Revolution,  a  Republican, 
because  of  the  Civil  War,  and  having  his  antagonism 
aroused  against  the  Blue-grass  people,  who,  he  believes, 

7 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

are  trying  to  rob  him  of  his  liberties,  he  is  now  the 
political  factor  with  which  the  Anti-Goebel  Demo- 
crats— in  all  ways  the  best  element  in  the  State — have 
imperilled  the  Democratic  Party  in  Kentucky.  Sooner 
or  later,  there  will  be  an  awakening  in  the  mountainous 
parts  of  the  seven  other  States;  already  the  coal  and 
iron  of  these  regions  are  making  many  a  Southern  ear 
listen  to  the  plea  of  protection ;  and  some  day  the  Na- 
tional Democratic  Party  will,  like  the  Confederacy, 
find  a  subtle  and  powerful  foe  in  the  Southern  moun- 
taineer and  in  the  riches  of  his  hills. 

In  the  march  of  civilization  westward,  the  Southern 
mountaineer  has  been  left  in  an  isolation  almost  beyond 
belief.  He  was  shut  off  by  mountains  that  have 
blocked  and  still  block  the  commerce  of  a  century,  and 
there  for  a  century  he  has  stayed.  He  has  had  no 
navigable  rivers,  no  lakes,  no  coasts,  few  wagon-roads, 
and  often  no  roads  at  all  except  the  beds  of  streams. 
He  has  lived  in  the  cabin  in  which  his  grandfather  was 
bom,  and  in  life,  habit,  and  thought  he  has  been 
merely  his  grandfather  bom  over  again.  The  first  gen- 
eration after  the  Revolution  had  no  schools  and  no 
churches.  Both  are  rare  and  primitive  to-day.  To  this 
day,  few  Southern  mountaineers  can  read  and  write 
and  cipher;  few,  indeed,  can  do  more.  They  saw  little 
of  the  newspapers,  and  were  changeless  in  politics  as 

8 


The  Southern  Mountaineer 

in  everything  else.  They  cared  little  for  what  was 
going  on  in  the  outside  world,  and  indeed  they  heard 
nothing  that  did  not  shake  the  nation.  To  the  average 
mountaineer,  the  earth  was  still  flat  and  had  four 
comers.  It  was  the  sun  that  girdled  the  earth,  just 
as  it  did  when  Joshua  told  it  to  stand  still,  and  pre- 
cisely for  that  reason.  The  stories  of  votes  yet  being 
cast  for  Andrew  Jackson  are  but  little  exagger- 
ated. An  old  Tennessee  mountaineer  once  told  me 
about  the  discovery  of  America  by  Columbus.  He 
could  read  his  Bible,  with  marvellous  interpretations 
of  the  same.  He  was  the  patriarch  of  his  district,  the 
philosopher.  He  had  acquired  the  habit  of  delivering 
the  facts  of  modern  progress  to  his  fellows,  and  it  never 
occurred  to  him  that  a  man  of  my  youth  might  be 
acquainted  with  that  rather  well-known  bit  of  history. 
I  listened  gravely,  and  he  went  on,  by  and  by,  to  speak 
of  the  Mexican  "War  as  we  would  speak  of  the  fighting 
in  China;  and  when  we  got  down  to  so  recent  and 
burning  an  issue  as  the  late  civil  struggle,  he  dropped 
his  voice  to  a  whisper  and  hitched  his  chair  across  the 
fireplace  and  close  to  mine. 

"  Some  folks  had  other  idees,"  he  said,  "  but  hit's 
my  pussonal  opinion  that  niggahs  was  the  cause  o'  the 
war." 

"When  I  left  his  cabin,  he  followed  me  out  to  the 
fence* 

9 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 


u 


Stranger,"  he  said,  "  I'd  rutlier  you  wouldn'  say 
nothin'  about  whut  I  been  tellin'  ye."  He  bad  been 
a  lone  rebel  in  sympathy,  and  he  feared  violence  at 
this  late  day  for  expressing  his  opinion  too  freely.  This 
old  man  was  a  "  citizen  " ;  I  was  a  "  f urriner  "  from 
the  "  settlements  " — that  is,  the  Blue-grass.  Colum- 
bus was  one  of  the  "  outlandish,"  a  term  that  carried 
not  only  his  idea  of  the  parts  hailed  from  but  his 
personal  opinion  of  Columbus.  Living  thus,  his  in- 
terest centred  in  himself,  his  family,  his  distant 
neighbor,  his  grist-mill,  his  country  store,  his  county 
town;  unaffected  by  other  human  influences;  having 
no  incentive  to  change,  no  wish  for  it,  and  remaining 
therefore  unchanged,  except  where  civilization  during 
the  last  decade  has  pressed  in  upon  him,  the  Southern 
mountaineer  is  thus  practically  the  pioneer  of  the  Revo- 
lution, the  living  ancestor  of  the  Modern  West. 

The  national  weapons  of  the  pioneer — the  axe  and 
the  rifle — are  the  Southern  mountaineer's  weapons  to- 
day. He  has  still  the  same  fight  with  Nature.  His 
cabin  was,  and  is  yet,  in  many  places,  the  cabin  of  the 
backwoodsman — of  one  room  usually — sometimes  two, 
connected  by  a  covered  porch,  and  built  of  unhewn 
logs,  with  a  puncheon  floor,  clapboards  for  shingles, 
and  wooden  pin  and  auger-holes  for  nails.  The  crev- 
ices between  the  logs  were  filled  with  mud  and  stones 

lO 


The  Southern  Mountaineer 

when  filled  at  all,  and  there  were  holes  in  the  roof  for 
the  wind  and  the  rain.  Sometimes  there  was  a  window 
with  a  batten  wooden  shutter,  sometimes  no  window 
at  all.  Over  the  door,  across  a  pair  of  buck  antlers, 
lay  the  long,  heavy,  home-made  rifle  of  the  back- 
woodsman, sometimes  even  with  a  flint  lock.  One 
can  yet  find  a  crane  swinging  in  a  big  stone  fireplace, 
the  spinning-wheel  and  the  loom  in  actual  use;  some- 
times the  hominy  block  that  the  pioneers  borrowed 
from  the  Indians,  and  a  hand-mill  for  grinding  corn 
like  the  one,  perhaps,  from  which  one  woman  was 
taken  and  another  left  in  biblical  days.  Until  a  decade 
and  a  half  ago  they  had  little  money,  and  the  medium 
of  exchange  was  barter.  They  drink  metheglin  still, 
as  well  as  moonshine.  They  marry  early,  and  only 
last  summer  I  saw  a  fifteen-year-old  girl  riding  behind 
her  father,  to  a  log  church,  to  be  married.  After  the 
service  her  pillion  was  shifted  to  her  young  husband's 
horse,  as  was  the  pioneer  custom,  and  she  rode  away 
behind  him  to  her  new  home.  There  are  still  log- 
rollings, house-raisings,  house-warmings,  corn-shuck- 
ings,  and  quiltings.  Sports  are  still  the  same — as  they 
have  been  for  a  hundred  years — wrestling,  racing, 
jumping,  and  lifting  barrels.  Brutally  savage  fights 
are  still  common  in  which  the  combatants  strike,  kick, 
bite,  and  gouge  until  one  is  ready  to  cry  "  enough." 

II 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

Even  the  backwoods  bully,  loud,  coarse,  profane, 
bantering — a  dandy  who  wore  long  hair  and  em- 
broidered his  hunting-shirt  with  porcupine-quills — is 
not  quite  dead.  I  saw  one  not  long  since,  but  he  wore 
store  clothes,  a  gorgeous  red  tie,  a  dazzling  brass  scarf- 
pin — in  the  bosom  of  his  shirt.  His  hair  was  sandy, 
but  his  mustache  was  blackened  jet.  He  had  the  air 
and  smirk  of  a  lady-killer,  and  in  the  butt  of  the 
huge  pistol  buckled  around  him  was  a  large  black 
bow — the  badge  of  death  and  destruction  to  his  ene- 
mies. Funerals  are  most  simple.  Sometimes  the 
coflB.n  is  slung  to  poles  and  carried  by  four  men.  While 
the  begum  has  given  place  to  hickory  bark  when  a 
cradle  is  wanted,  baskets  and  even  fox-horns  are  still 
made  of  that  material. 

Not  only  many  remnants  like  these  are  left  in  the  life 
of  the  mountaineer,  but,  occasionally,  far  up  some 
creek,  it  was  possible,  as  late  as  fifteen  years  ago,  to 
come  upon  a  ruddy,  smooth-faced,  big-framed  old 
fellow,  keen-eyed,  taciturn,  avoiding  the  main-trav- 
elled roads;  a  gTcat  hunter,  calling  his  old  squirrel 
rifle  by  some  pet  feminine  name — who,  with  a  coon- 
skin  cap,  the  scalp  in  front,  and  a  fringed  hunting- 
shirt  and  moccasins,  completed  the  perfect  image  of 
the  pioneer  as  the  books  and  tradition  have  handed 
him  down  to  us. 

12 


The  Southern  Mountaineer 

It  is  easy  to  go  on  back  across  the  water  to  the 
Old  Country.  One  finds  still  among  the  mountaineers 
the  pioneer's  belief  in  signs,  omens,  and  the  practice 
of  witchcraft ;  for  whatever  traits  the  pioneer  brought 
over  the  sea,  the  Southern  mountaineer  has  to-day. 
The  rough-and-tumble  fight  of  the  Scotch  and  the 
English  square  stand-up  and  knock-down  boxing- 
match  were  the  mountaineer's  ways  of  settling  minor 
disputes — one  or  the  other,  according  to  agreement 
— until  the  war  introduced  musket  and  pistol.  The 
imprint  of  Calvinism  on  his  religious  nature  is  yet 
plain,  in  spite  of  the  sway  of  Methodism  for  nearly 
a  century.  He  is  the  only  man  in  the  world  whom 
the  Catholic  Church  has  made  little  or  no  effort  to 
proselyte.  Dislike  of  Episcopalianism  is  still  strong 
among  people  who  do  not  kijow,  or  pretend  not  to 
know,  what  the  word  means. 

"  Any  Episcopalians  around  here?  "  asked  a  clergy- 
man at  a  mountain  cabin,  "  I  don'  know,"  said  the 
old  woman.  "  Jim's  got  the  skins  of  a  lot  o'  varmints 
up  in  the  loft.    Mebbe  you  can  find  one  up  thar." 

The  Unionism  of  the  mountaineer  in  the  late  war  is 
in  great  part  an  inheritance  from  the  intense  American- 
ism of  the  backwoodsman,  just  as  that  Americanism 
came  from  the  spirit  of  the  Covenanters.  His  music  is 
thus  a  trans-Atlantic  remnant.      In  Harlan  County, 

13 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

Ky.,  a  mountain  girl  leaned  her  chair  against  the  wall 
of  her  cabin,  put  her  large,  bare  feet  on  one  of  the 
rungs,  and  sang  me  an  English  ballad  three  hundred 
years  old,  and  almost  as  long  as  it  was  ancient.  She 
said  she  knew  many  others.  In  Peny  County,  where 
there  are  in  the  French-Eversole  feud  Mclntyres,  Mc- 
Intoshes,  McKnights,  Combs,  probably  McCombs  and 
Fitzpatricks,  Scotch  ballads  are  said  to  be  sung  with 
Scotch  accent,  and  an  occasional  copy  of  Burns  is  to 
be  found.  I  have  even  run  across  the  modem  survival 
of  the  wandering  minstrel — two  blind  fiddlers  who 
went  through  the  mountains  making  up  "  ballets  "  to 
celebrate  the  deeds  of  leaders  in  Kentucky  feuds.  One 
of  the  verses  ran: 

The  death  of  these  two  men 
Caused  great  trouble  in  our  land, 
Caused  men  to  say  the  bitter  word, 
And  take  the  parting  hand. 

Nearly  all  songs  and  dance  tunes  are  written  in  the 
so-called  old  Scotch  scale,  and,  like  negro  music,  they 
drop  frequently  into  the  relative  minor;  so  that  if 
there  be  any  truth  in  the  theory  that  negro  music 
is  merely  the  adaptation  of  Scotch  and  Irish  folk- 
songs, and  folk-dances,  with  the  added  stamp  of 
the  negro's  peculiar  temperament,  then  the  music 

14 


The  Southern  Mountaineer 

adapted  is  to  be  heard  in  the  mountains  to-day  as  the 
negro  heard  it  long  ago. 

In  his  speech  the  mountaineer  touches  a  very  re- 
mote past.  Strictly  speaking,  he  has  no  dialect.  The 
mountaineer  simply  keeps  in  use  old  words  and  mean- 
ings that  the  valley  people  have  ceased  to  use;  but 
nowhere  is  this  usage  so  sustained  and  consistent  as 
to  form  a  dialect.  To  writers  of  mountain  stories  the 
temptation  seems  quite  irresistible  to  use  more  peculiar 
words  in  one  story  than  can  be  gathered  from  the 
people  in  a  month.  Still,  unusual  words  are  abundant. 
There  are  perhaps  two  hundred  words,  meanings,  and 
pronunciations  that  in  the  mountaineer's  speech  go 
back  unchanged  to  Chaucer.  Some  of  the  words  are : 
afeerd,  afore,  axe,  holp,  crope,  clomb,  peert,  beest 
(horse),  cryke,  eet  (ate),  farwel,  fer  (far),  fool  (foolish 
— "  them  fool-women  "  ),  heepe,  hit  (it),  I  is,  lepte, 
pore  (poor),  right  (very),  slyk,  study  (think),  souple 
(supple),  up  (verb),  "  he  up  and  done  it,"  usen,  yer 
for  year,  yond,  instid,  yit,  etc.  There  are  others  which 
have  English  dialect  authority:  blather,  doated,  antic, 
dreen,  brash,  faze  (now  modern  slang),  fernent,  fer- 
ninst,  master,  size,  etc.  Many  of  these  words,  of  course, 
the  upper  classes  use  throughout  the  South.  These, 
the  young  white  master  got  from  his  negro  play- 
mates, who  took  them  from  the  lips  of  the  poor  whites. 

IS 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

The  double  negative,  always  used  by  the  old  English, 
who  seem  to  have  resisted  it  no  more  than  did 
the  Greeks,  is  invariable  with  the  mountaineer.  With 
him  a  triple  negative  is  common.  A  mountaineer  had 
been  shot.  His  friends  came  in  to  see  him  and  kept 
urging  him  to  revenge.  A  woman  wanted  them  to 
stop. 

"  Hit  jes'  raises  the  ambition  in  him  and  donH  do 
no  good  nohow." 

The  "  dialect  "  is  not  wholly  deterioration,  then. 
What  we  are  often  apt  to  regard  as  ignorance  in  the 
mountaineer  is  simply  our  own  disuse.  Unfortunately, 
the  speech  is  a  mixture  of  so  many  old  English  dialects 
that  it  is  of  little  use  in  tracing  the  origin  of  the  people 
who  use  it. 

Such  has  been  the  outward  protective  effect  of 
mountains  on  the  Southern  mountaineer.  As  a  human 
type  he  is  of  unusual  interest. 

]^o  mountain  people  are  ever  rich.  Environment 
keeps  mountaineers  poor.  The  strength  that  comes 
from  numbers  and  wealth  is  always  wanting.  Agri- 
culture is  the  sole  stand-by,  and  agriculture  distributes 
population,  because  arable  soil  is  confined  to  bottom- 
lands and  valleys.  Farming  on  a  mountain-side  is  not 
only  arduous  and  unremunerative — it  is  sometimes 
dangerous.     There  is  a  well-authenticated  case  of  a 

i6 


o 


The  Southern  Mountaineer 

Kentucky  mountaineer  who  fell  out  of  his  own  corn- 
field and  broke  his  neck.  Still,  though  fairly  well- 
to-do  in  the  valleys,  the  Southern  mountaineer  can 
be  pathetically  poor.  A  young  preacher  stopped  at 
a  cabin  in  Georgia  to  stay  all  night.  His  hostess,  as 
a  mark  of  unusual  distinction,  killed  a  chicken  and 
dressed  it  in  a  pan.  She  rinsed  the  pan  and  made  up  her 
dough  in  it.  She  rinsed  it  again  and  went  out  and 
used  it  for  a  milk-pail.  She  came  in,  rinsed  it  again, 
and  went  to  the  spring  and  brought  it  back  full  of 
water.  She  filled  up  the  glasses  on  the  table  and  gave 
him  the  pan  with  the  rest  of  the  water  in  which 
to  wash  his  hands.  The  woman  was  not  a  slattern ;  it 
was  the  only  utensil  she  had. 

This  poverty  of  natural  resources  makes  the  moun- 
taineer's fight  for  life  a  hard  one.  At  the  same  time 
it  gives  him  vigor,  hardihood,  and  endurance  of  body; 
it  saves  him  from  the  comforts  and  dainties  that 
weaken;  and  it  makes  him  a  formidable  competitor, 
when  it  forces  him  to  come  down  into  the  plains,  as  it 
often  does.  For  this  poverty  was  at  the  bottom  of  the 
marauding  instinct  of  the  Pict  and  Scot,  just  as  it 
is  at  the  bottom  of  the  migrating  instinct  that  sends 
the  Southern  mountaineers  west,  in  spite  of  a  love  for 
home  that  is  a  proverb  with  the  Swiss,  and  is  hardly 
less  strong  in  the  Southern  mountaineer  to-day.     Id' 

17 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

variably  the  Western  wanderer  comes  home  again. 
Time  and  again  an  effort  was  made  to  end  a  feud  in 
the  Kentucky  mountains  by  sending  the  leaders  away. 
They  always  came  back. 

It  is  this  poverty  of  arable  land  that  further  isolates 
the  mountaineer  in  his  loneliness.  For  he  must  live 
apart  not  only  from  the  world,  but  from  his  neighbor. 
The  result  is  an  enforced  self-reliance,  and  through 
that,  the  gradual  growth  of  an  individualism  that  has 
been  "  the  strength,  the  weakness;  the  personal  charm, 
the  political  stumbling-block;  the  ethical  significance 
and  the  historical  insigTiificance  of  the  mountaineer  the 
world  over."  It  is  this  isolation,  this  individualism, 
that  makes  unity  of  action  difficult,  public  sentiment 
weak,  and  takes  from  the  law  the  righting  of  private 
wrongs.  It  is  this  individualism  that  has  been  a  rich 
mine  for  the  writer  of  fiction.  In  the  Southern  moun- 
taineer, its  most  marked  elements  are  religious  feel- 
ing, hospitality,  and  pride.  So  far  these  last  two  traits 
have  been  lightly  touched  upon,  for  the  reason  that 
they  appear  only  by  contrast  with  a  higher  civilization 
that  has  begun  to  reach  them  only  in  the  last  few 
years. 

The  latch-string  hangs  outside  every  cabin-door  if 
the  men-folks  are  at  home,  but  you  must  shout "  hello  " 
always  outside  the  fence. 

i8 


The  Southern  Mountaineer 

"  "We  ims  is  pore,"  you  will  be  told,  "  but  y'u're 
welcome  ef  y'u  kin  put  up  with  what  we  have." 

After  a  stay  of  a  week  at  a  mountain  cabin,  a  young 
"  furriner  "  asked  what  his  bill  was.  The  old  moun- 
taineer waved  his  hand.     "  Nothin',"  he  said,  "  'cept 


come  agin 


t  " 


A  belated  traveller  asked  to  stay  all  night  at  a  cabin. 
The  mountaineer  answered  that  his  wife  was  sick  and 
they  were  "  sorter  out  o'  fixin's  to  eat,  but  he  reckoned 
he  mought  step  over  to  a  neighbor's  an  borrer  some." 
He  did  step  over  and  he  was  gone  three  hours.  He 
brought  back  a  little  bag  of  meal,  and  they  had  corn- 
bread  and  potatoes  for  supper  and  for  breakfast,  cooked 
by  the  mountaineer.  The  stranger  asked  how  far  away 
his  next  neighbor  lived.  "  A  leetle  the  rise  o'  six  miles 
I  reckon,"  was  the  answer. 

"Which  way?" 

"  Oh,  jes'  over  the  mountain  thar." 

He  had  stepped  six  miles  over  the  mountain  and 
back  for  that  little  bag  of  meal,  and  he  would  allow 
his  guest  to  pay  nothing  next  morning. 

I  have  slept  with  nine  others  in  a  single  room.  The 
host  gave  up  his  bed  to  two  of  our  party,  and  he  and 
his  wife  slept  with  the  rest  of  us  on  the  floor.  He  gave 
us  supper,  kept  us  all  night,  sent  us  away  next  morning 
with  a  parting  draught  of  moonshine  apple-jack,  of 

19 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

his  own  brewing,  by  the  way,  and  wonld  suffer  no  one 
to  pay  a  cent  for  his  entertainment.  That  man  was 
a  desperado,  an  outlaw,  a  moonshiner,  and  was  running 
from  the  sheriff  at  that  very  time. 

Two  outlaw  sons  were  supposed  to  be  killed  by  offi- 
cers. I  offered  aid  to  the  father  to  have  them  decently 
clothed  and  buried,  but  the  old  man,  who  was  as  bad 
as  his  sons,  declined  it  with  some  dignity.  They  had 
enough  left  for  that;   and  if  not,  why,  he  had. 

A  woman  whose  husband  was  dead,  who  was  sick  to 
death  herself,  whose  four  children  were  almost  starved, 
said,  when  she  heard  the  "  furriners  "  were  talking 
about  sending  her  to  the  poor-house,  that  she  "  would 
go  out  on  her  crutches  and  hoe  com  fust  "  (and  she 
did),  and  that  "  people  who  talked  about  sending  her 
to  the  po'-house  had  better  save  their  breath  to  make 
prayers  ^vith." 

It  is  a  fact — in  the  Kentucky  mountains  at  least — 
that  the  poor-houses  are  usually  empty,  and  that  it  is 
considered  a  disgrace  to  a  whole  clan  if  one  of  its 
members  is  an  inmate.  It  is  the  exception  when  a 
family  is  loXv  and  lazy  enough  to  take  a  revenue  from 
the  State  for  an  idiot  child.  I  saw  a  boy  once,  astride 
a  steer  which  he  had  bridled  with  a  rope,  barefooted, 
with  his  yellow  hair  sticking  from  his  crownless  hat, 
and  in  blubbering  ecstasy  over  the  fact  that  be  was 

20 


The  Southern  Mountaineer 

no  longer  under  the  humiliation  of  accepting  $75  a 
year  from  the  State.  He  had  proven  his  sanity  by  his 
answer  to  one  question. 

"Do  you  work  in  the  field?"  asked  the  commis- 
sioner. 

"  Well,  ef  I  didn't,"  was  the  answer,  "  thar  wouldn't 
be  no  work  done." 

I  have  always  feared,  however,  that  there  was  an- 
other reason  for  his  happiness  than  balm  to  his  suf- 
fering pride.  Relieved  of  the  ban  of  idiocy,  he  had 
gained  a  privilege — unspeakably  dear  in  the  mountains 
— the  privilege  of  matrimony. 

Like  all  mountain  races,  the  Southern  mountaineers 
are  deeply  religious.  In  some  communities,  religion 
is  about  the  only  form  of  recreation  they  have.  They 
are  for  the  most  part  Methodists  and  Baptists — some- 
times Ironsides  feet-washing  Baptists.  They  will  walk, 
or  ride  when  possible,  eight  or  ten  miles,  and  sit  all 
day  in  a  close,  windowless  log-cabin  on  the  flat  side 
of  a  slab  supported  by  pegs,  listening  to  the  high- 
wrought,  emotional,  and,  at  times,  unintelligible  rant- 
ing of  a  mountain  preacher,  while  the  young  men  sit 
outside,  whittling  with  their  Barlows  and  huge  jack- 
knives,  and  swapping  horses  and  guns. 

"  If  anybody  wants  to  extribute  anything  to  the  ex- 
port of  the  gospels,  hit  will  be  gradually  received."    A 

21 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

possible  remark  of  this  sort  will  gauge  the  intelligence 
of  the  pastor.  The  cosmopolitanism  of  the  congrega- 
tion can  be  guessed  from  the  fact  that  certain  elders, 
filling  a  vacancy  in  their  pulpit,  once  decided  to  "  take 
that  ar  man  Spurgeon  if  they  could  git  him  to  come." 
It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add  that  the  "  extribution 
to  the  export  of  the  gospels  "  is  very,  very  gradually 
received. 

Naturally,  their  religion  is  sternly  orthodox  and 
most  literal.  The  infidel  is  unknown,  and  no  moun- 
taineer is  so  bad  as  not  to  have  a  full  share  of  religion 
deep  down,  though,  as  in  his  more  civilized  brother, 
it  is  not  always  apparent  until  death  is  at  hand.  In 
the  famous  Howard  and  Turner  war,  the  last  but  one 
of  the  Turner  brothers  was  shot  by  a  Howard  while  he 
was  drinking  at  a  spring.  He  leaped  to  his  feet  and 
fell  in  a  little  creek,  where,  from  behind  a  sycamore- 
root,  he  emptied  his  Winchester  at  his  enemy,  and  be- 
tween the  cracks  of  his  gun  he  could  be  heard,  half 
a  mile  away,  praying  aloud. 

The  custom  of  holding  funeral  services  for  the  dead 
annually,  for  several  years  after  death,  is  common.  I 
heard  the  fourth  annual  funeral  sermon  of  a  dead 
feud  leader  preached  a  few  summers  ago,  and  it  was 
consoling  to  hear  that  even  he  had  all  the  virtues  that 
so  few  men  seem  to  have  in  life,  and  so  few  to  lack 

22 


The  Southern  Mountaineer 

when  dead.  But  in  spite  of  the  universality  of  religious 
feeling  and  a  surprising  knowledge  of  the  Bible,  it 
is  possible  to  find  an  ignorance  that  is  almost  incredible. 
The  mountain  evangelist,  George  O.  Barnes,  it  is  said, 
once  stopped  at  a  mountain  cabin  and  told  the  story 
of  the  crucifixion  as  few  other  men  can.  When  he  was 
quite  through,  an  old  woman  who  had  listened  in  ab- 
sorbed silence,  asked: 

"  Stranger,  you  say  that  that  happened  a  long  while 
ago?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Barnes;  "almost  two  thousand 
years  ago." 

"And  they  treated  him  that  way  when  he'd  come 
down  fer  nothin'  on  earth  but  to  save  'em?  " 

"  Yes." 

The  old  woman  was  crying  softly,  and  she  put  out 
her  hand  and  laid  it  on  his  knee. 

"  Well,  stranger,"  she  said,  "  let's  hope  that  hit 
ain't  so." 

She  did  not  want  to  believe  that  humanity  was 
capable  of  such  ingratitude.  While  ignorance  of  this 
kind  is  rare,  and  while  we  may  find  men  who  know 
the  Bible  from  "  kiver  to  kiver,"  it  is  not  impossible 
to  find  children  of  shrewd  native  intelligence  who  have 
not  heard  of  Christ  and  the  Bible. 

Now,  whatever  interest  the  Southern  mountaineer 
23 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

has  as  a  remnant  of  pioneer  days,  as  a  relic  of  an  Anglo- 
Saxon  past,  and  as  a  peculiar  type  tliat  seems  to  be 
the  invariable  result  of  a  mountain  environment — the 
Kentucky  mountaineer  shares  in  a  marked  degiee. 
Moreover,  he  has  an  interest  peculiarly  his  own;  for 
I  believe  him  to  be  as  sharply  distinct  from  his  fellows, 
as  the  blue-grass  Kentuckian  is  said  to  be  from  his. 


The  Kentucky  Mountaineer 


The  Kentucky  Mountaineer 

THE  Kentucky  mountaineers  are  practically 
valley  people.  There  are  the  three  forks  of 
the  Cumberland,  the  three  forks  of  the  Ken- 
tucky, and  the  tributaries  of  Big  Sandy — all  with 
rich  river-bottoms.  It  was  natural  that  these  lands 
should  attract  a  better  class  of  people  than  the  average 
mountaineer.  They  did.  There  were  many  slave- 
holders among  them — a  fact  that  has  never  been 
mentioned,  as  far  as  I  know,  by  anybody  who  has 
written  about  the  mountaineer.  The  houses  along 
these  rivers  are,  as  a  rule,  weather-boarded,  and  one 
will  often  find  interior  decorations,  startling  in  color 
and  puzzling  in  design,  painted  all  over  porch,  wall, 
and  ceiling.  The  people  are  better  fed,  better  clothed, 
less  lank  in  figure,  more  intelligent.  They  wear  leas 
homespun,  and  their  speech,  while  as  archaic  as  else- 
where, is,  I  believe,  purer.  You  rarely  hear  "  you 
uns "  and  "  we  uns,"  and  similar  untraceable  con- 
fusions in  the  Kentucky  mountains,  except  along  the 

27 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

border  of  the  Tennessee.  Moreover,  the  mountaineers 
who  came  over  from  West  Virginia  and  from  the 
southwestern  corner  of  old  Virginia  were  undoubtedly 
the  daring,  the  hardy,  and  the  strong,  for  no  other  kind 
would  have  climbed  gloomy  Black  Mountain  and  the 
Cumberland  Range  to  fight  against  beast  and  savage 
for  their  homes. 

However,  in  spite  of  the  general  superiority  that 
these  facts  give  him,  the  Kentucky  mountaineer  has 
been  more  isolated  than  the  mountaineer  of  any  other 
State.  There  are  regions  more  remote  and  more 
sparsely  settled,  but  nowhere  in  the  Southern  moun- 
tains has  so  large  a  body  of  mountaineers  been  shut  off 
so  completely  from  the  outside  world.  As  a  result,  he 
illustrates  Mr.  Theodore  Roosevelt's  fine  observation 
that  life  away  from  civilization  simply  emphasizes  the 
natural  qualities,  good  and  bad,  of  the  individual.  The 
effect  of  this  truth  seems  perceptible  in  that  any  trait 
common  to  the  Southern  mountaineer  seems  to  be  in- 
tensified in  the  mountaineer  of  Kentucky.  He  is  more 
clannish,  prouder,  more  hospitable,  fiercer,  more  loyal 
as  a  friend,  more  bitter  as  an  enemy,  and  in  simple 
meanness — when  he  is  mean,  mind  you — ^he  can  out- 
Herod  his  race  with  great  ease. 

To  illustrate  his  clannishness:  Three  mountaineers 
with  a  grievance  went  up  to  some  mines  to  drive  the 

28 


The  Kentucky  Mountaineer 

book-keeper  away.  A  fourth  man  joined  them  and 
stood  with  drawn  pistol  during  the  controversy  at  the 
mines,  because  his  wife  was  a  first  cousin  by  marriage 
of  one  of  the  three  who  had  the  grievance.  In  Re- 
pubHcan  counties,  county  ofiicers  are  often  Democratic 
— blood  is  a  stronger  tie  even  than  politics. 

As  to  his  hospitality:  A  younger  brother  of  mine 
was  taking  dinner  with  an  old  mountaineer.  There 
was  nothing  on  the  table  but  some  bread  and  a  few 
potatoes. 

"  Take  out,  stranger,"  he  said,  heartily.  "  Have  a 
'tater — take  two  of  'em — take  damn  nigh  all  of  'em!  " 

A  mountaineer,  who  had  come  into  possession  of  a 
small  saw-mill,  was  building  a  new  house.  As  he  had 
plenty  of  lumber,  a  friend  of  mine  asked  why  he  did 
not  build  a  bigger  house.  It  was  big  enough,  he  said. 
He  had  two  rooms — "  one  fer  the  family,  an'  t'other 
fer  company."  As  his  family  numbered  fifteen,  the 
scale  on  which  he  expected  to  entertain  can  be  im- 
agined. 

The  funeral  sermon  of  a  mountaineer,  who  had  been 
dead  two  years,  was  preached  in  Turkey  Foot  at  the 
base  of  Mount  Scrat^hum  in  Jackson  County.  Three 
branches  run  together  like  a  turkey's  foot  at  that  point. 
The  mountain  is  called  Scratchum  because  it  is  hard 
to  climb.     "  A  funeral  sermon,"  said  the  old  preacher, 

29 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

"  can  be  the  last  one  you  hear,  or  the  fust  one  thafs 
preached  over  ye  atter  death.  Maybe  I'm  a-preachin* 
my  own  funeral  sermon  now."  If  he  was,  he  did  him- 
self justice,  for  he  preached  three  solid  hours.  The 
audience  was  invited  to  stay  to  dinner.  Forty  of  them 
accepted — there  were  just  forty  there — and  dinner  was 
served  from  two  o'clock  until  six.  The  forty  were 
pressed  to  stay  all  night.  Twenty-three  did  stay,  sev- 
enteen in  one  room.  Such  is  the  hospitality  of  the 
Kentucky  mountaineer. 

As  to  his  pride,  that  is  almost  beyond  belief.  I 
always  hesitate  to  tell  this  story,  for  the  reason  that 
I  can  hardly  believe  it  myself.  There  was  a  plague 
in  the  mountains  of  eastern  Kentucky,  West  Virginia, 
and  the  southwest  comer  of  old  Virginia  in  1885.  A 
cattle  convention  of  St.  Louis  made  up  a  relief  fund 
and  sent  it  for  distribution  to  General  Jubal  Early  of 
Virginia.  General  Early  sent  it  to  a  lawyer  of  Ab- 
ingdon, Va.,  who  persuaded  D.  F.  Campbell,  another 
lawyer  now  living  in  that  town,  to  take  the  money 
into  the  mountains.  Campbell  left  several  hundred 
dollars  in  Virginia,  and  being  told  that  the  West  Vir- 
ginians could  take  care  of  themselves  went  with  the 
balance,  about  $1,000,  into  Kentucky,  where  the 
plague  was  at  its  worst.  He  found  the  suffering  great 
— nine  dead,  in  one  instance,  under  a  single  roof. 

30 


The  Kentucky  Mountaineer 

He  spent  one  month  going  from  house  to  house  in  the 
counties  of  Letcher,  Perry,  and  Pike,  carrying  the 
money  in  his  saddle-bags  and  riding  unarmed.  Every 
man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  three  counties  knew 
he  had  the  money  and  knew  his  mission.  He  left  $5 
at  a  country  store,  and  he  got  one  woman  to  persuade 
another  woman  whose  husband  and  three  children  were 
just  dead,  and  who  had  indignantly  refused  his  per- 
sonal offer  of  assistance,  to  accept  $10.  The  rest  of 
the  money  he  took  back  and  distributed  without 
trouble  on  his  own  side  of  the  mountain. 

While  in  Kentucky  he  found  trouble  in  getting 
enough  to  eat  for  himself  and  his  horse.  Often  he  had 
only  bread  and  onions;  and  yet  he  was  permitted  to 
pay  but  for  one  meal  for  either,  and  that  was  under 
protest  at  a  regular  boarding-house  in  a  mountain  town. 
Over  the  three  counties,  he  got  the  same  answer. 

"  You  are  a  stranger.  We  are  not  beggars,  and 
we  can  take  care  of  ourselves." 

"  They  are  a  curious  people  over  there,"  said  Camp- 
bell, who  is  a  born  Virginian.  "  No  effort  was  made 
to  rob  me,  though  a  man  who  was  known  as  '  the  only 
thief  in  Perry  County,'  a  man  whom  I  know  to  have 
been  trusted  with  large  sums  by  his  leader  in  a  local 
war,  sent  me  a  joking  threat.  The  people  were  not  sus- 
picious of  me  because  I  was  a  stranger.     They  con- 

31 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

cealed  cases  of  suffering  from  me.  It  was  pride  that 
made  them  refuse  the  money — nothing  else.  They 
are  the  most  loyal  friends  you  ever  saw.  They  will  do 
anything  for  you,  if  they  like  you.  They  will  get  up 
and  go  anywhere  for  you  day  or  night,  rain  or  snow. 
If  they  haven't  a  horse,  they'll  walk.  If  they  haven't 
shoes,  they'll  go  barefooted.  They  will  combine 
against  you  in  a  trade,  and  take  every  advantage  they 
can.  A  man  will  keep  you  at  his  house  to  beat  you 
out  of  a  dollar,  and  when  you  leave,  your  board-bill  is 
nothing." 

This  testimony  is  from  a  Virginian,  and  it  is  a  par- 
ticular pleasure  for  a  representative  of  one  of  the 
second-class  families  of  Virginia  who,  as  the  first  fami- 
lies say,  all  emigrated  to  Kentucky,  to  prove,  by  the 
word  of  a  Virginian,  that  we  have  some  advantage  in 
at  least  one  section  of  the  State. 

Indeed,  no  matter  what  may  be  said  of  the  mountain- 
eer in  general,  the  Kentucky  mountaineer  seems  to 
go  the  fact  one  better.  Elsewhere,  families  are  large 
— "  children  and  Leepe,"  says  Chaucer.  In  Jackson 
County  a  mountaineer  died  not  long  ago,  not  at  an 
extreme  old  age,  who  left  two  hundred  and  seven  de- 
scendants. He  had  fifteen  children,  and  several  of  his 
children  had  fifteen.  There  was  but  one  set  of 
twins  among  them — both  girls — and  they  were  called 

32 


The  Kentucky  Mountaineer 

Louisa  and  Louisa.  There  is  in  the  same  county  a 
woman  forty-seven  years  of  age,  with  a  grand-daugh- 
ter who  has  been  married  fifteen  months.  Only  a 
break  in  the  family  tradition  prevented  her  from  be- 
ing a  great-grandmother  at  forty-seven. 

It  may  be  that  the  Kentucky  mountaineer  is  more 
tempted  to  an  earlier  marriage  than  is  the  mountaineer 
elsewhere,  for  an  artist  who  rode  with  me  through  the 
Kentucky  mountains  said  that  not  only  were  the 
men  finer  looking,  but  that  the  women  were  far  hand- 
somer than  elsewhere  in  the  southern  Alleghanies. 
While  I  am  not  able  to  say  this,  I  can  say  that  in  the 
Kentucky  mountains  the  pretty  mountain  girl  is  not 
always,  as  some  people  are  inclined  to  believe,  pure 
fiction.  Pretty  girls  are,  however,  rare;  for  usually 
the  women  are  stoop-shouldered  and  large  waisted 
from  working  in  the  fields  and  lifting  heavy  weights; 
for  the  same  reason  their  hands  are  large  and  so  are 
their  feet,  for  they  generally  go  barefoot.  But  usually 
they  have  modest  faces  and  sad,  modest  eyes,  and  in 
the  rich  river-bottoms,  where  the  mountain  farmers 
have  tenants  and  do  not  send  their  daughters  to  the 
fields,  the  girls  are  apt  to  be  erect  and  agile,  small  of 
hand  and  foot,  and  usually  they  have  a  wild  shyness 
that  is  very  attractive.  I  recall  one  girl  in  crimson 
homespun,  with  very  big  dark  eyes,  slipping  like  a 

33 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

flame  through  the  dark  room,  behind  me,  when  I  was 
on  the  porch;  or  gliding  out  of  the  one  door,  if  I 
chanced  to  enter  the  other,  which  I  did  at  every  oppor- 
tunity. A  friend  who  was  with  me  saw  her  dancing 
in  the  dust  at  twilight,  next  day,  when  she  was  driving 
the  cows  home.  He  helped  her  to  milk  and  got  to 
know  her  quite  well,  I  believe.  I  know  that,  a  year 
later,  when  she  had  worn  away  her  shyness  and  most 
of  her  charm  at  school  in  her  county  seat,  she  asked 
me  about  him,  with  embarrassing  frankness,  and  a 
look  crept  into  her  eyes  that  told  an  old  tale.  Pretty 
girls  there  are  in  abundance,  but  I  have  seen  only  one 
very  beautiful  mountain  girl.  One's  standard  can 
be  affected  by  a  long  stay  in  the  mountains,  and 
I  should  have  distrusted  mine  had  it  not  been  for 
the  artist  who  was  with  me,  fresh  from  civilization. 
We  saw  her,  as  we  were  riding  up  the  Cumberland, 
and  we  silently  and  simultaneously  drew  rein  and 
asked  if  we  could  get  buttermilk.  We  could,  and  we 
swung  from  our  horses.  The  girl  was  sitting  behind 
a  little  cabin,  with  a  baby  in  her  lap,  and  her  loveliness 
was  startling.  She  was  slender;  her  hair  was  gold- 
brown;  her  hands  were  small  and,  for  a  wonder,  beau- 
tifully shaped.  Her  teeth,  for  a  wonder,  too,  were  very 
white  and  even.  Her  features  were  delicately  perfect ; 
her  mouth  shaped  as  Cupid's  bow  never  was  and  never 

34 


The  Kentucky  Mountaineer 

would  be,  said  the  artist,  who  christened  her  eyes  after 
Trilby's — "  twin  gray  stars  " — to  which  the  eyebrows 
and  the  long  lashes  gave  an  indescribable  softness.  But 
I  felt  more  the  brooding  pathos  that  lay  in  them,  that 
came  from  generations  of  lonely  mothers  before  her, 
waiting  in  lonely  cabins  for  the  men  to  come  home 
— back  to  those  wild  pioneer  days,  when  they  watched 
with  an  ever-present  fear  that  they  might  not  come 
at  all. 

It  was  late  and  we  tried  to  get  to  stay  all  night, 
for  the  artist  wanted  to  sketch  her.  He  was  afraid 
to  ask  her  permission  on  so  short  an  acquaintance, 
for  she  would  not  have  understood,  and  he  would 
have  frightened  her.  Her  mother  gave  us  buttermilk 
and  we  furtively  studied  her,  but  we  could  not  stay 
all  night:  there  were  no  men-folks  at  home  and  no 
"  roughness  "  for  our  horses,  and  we  rode  regretfully 
away. 

Now,  while  the  good  of  the  mountaineer  is  empha- 
sized in  the  mountaineer  of  Kentucky,  the  evil  is 
equally  marked.  The  Kentucky  mountaineer  may  be 
the  best  of  all — he  can  be  likewise  the  worst  of  all. 

A  mountaineer  was  under  indictment  for  moon- 
shining  in  a  little  mountain  town  that  has  been  under 
the  refining  influence  of  a  railroad  for  several  years. 
Unable  to  give  bond,  he  was  ordered  to  jail  by  the 

35 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

judge.  When  the  sheriff  rose,  a  huge  mountaineer 
rose,  too,  in  the  rear  of  the  court-room  and  whipped 
out  a  big  revolver.  "  You  come  with  me,"  he  said, 
and  the  prisoner  came,  while  judge,  jury,  and  sheriff 
watched  him  march  out.  The  big  fellow  took  the  pris- 
oner through  the  town  and  a  few  hundred  yards  up 
a  creek.  "  You  go  on  home,"  he  said.  Then  the 
rescuer  went  calmly  back  to  his  house  in  town,  and 
nothing  further  has  been  said  or  done  to  this  day.  The 
mountaineer  was  a  United  States  deputy  marshal,  but 
the  prisoner  was  his  friend. 

This  marshal  was  one  of  the  most  picturesque  figures 
in  the  mountains.  When  sober,  he  was  kind-hearted, 
good-tempered,  and  gentle ;  and  always  he  was  fearless 
and  cool.  Once,  while  firing  at  two  assailants  who 
were  shooting  at  him,  he  stopped  long  enough  to  blow 
his  nose  deliberately,  and  then  calmly  went  on  shooting 
again.  He  had  a  companion  at  arms  who,  singularly 
enough,  came  from  the  North,  and  occasionally  these 
two  would  amuse  themselves.  When  properly  exhil- 
arated, one  would  put  a  horse-collar  on  the  other,  and 
hitch  him  to  an  open  buggy.  He  would  fill  the  buggy 
with  pistols,  climb  in,  and  drive  around  the  court- 
house— each  man  firing  off  a  pistol  with  each  hand  and 
yelling  himself  hoarse.  Then  they  would  execute 
an  Indian  war-dance  in  the  court-house  square — firing 

36 


The  Kentucky  Mountaineer 

their  pistols  alternately  into  the  ground  and  into  the 
air.  The  town  looked  on  silently  and  with  great 
respect,  and  the  two  were  most  exemplary  until  next 
time. 

A  superintendent  of  some  mines  near  a  mountain 
town  went  to  the  mayor  one  Sunday  morning  to  get 
permission  to  do  some  work  that  had  to  be  done  in  the 
town  limits  that  day.  He  found  the  august  official 
in  his  own  jail.     Exhilaration! 

It  was  at  these  mines  that  three  natives  of  the  town 
went  up  to  drive  two  young  men  into  the  bushes.  Be- 
ing met  with  some  firmness  and  the  muzzle  of  a 
Winchester,  they  went  back  for  reinforcements.  One 
of  the  three  was  a  member  of  a  famous  fighting  clan, 
and  he  gave  it  out  that  he  was  going  for  his  friends 
to  make  the  "  furriners "  leave  the  country.  The 
young  men  appealed  to  the  town  for  protection  for 
themselves  and  property.  There  was  not  an  officer 
to  answer.  The  sheriff  was  in  another  part  of  the 
county  and  the  constable  had  just  resigned.  The 
young  men  got  Winchester  repeating  shot-guns  and 
waited  a  week  for  their  assailants,  who  failed  to  come ; 
but  had  they  been  besieged,  there  would  not  have  been 
a  soul  to  give  them  assistance,  except  perhaps  the  mar- 
shal and  his  New  England  friend. 

In  this  same  county  a  man  hired  an  assassin  to  kill 
37 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

his  rival.  The  assassin  crept  to  the  window  of  the 
house  where  the  girl  lived,  and,  seeing  a  man  sitting 
by  the  fire,  shot  through  the  window  and  killed  him. 
It  was  the  wrong  man.  Assassinations  from  ambush 
have  not  been  uncommon  in  every  feud,  though,  in 
almost  every  feud,  there  has  been  one  faction  that 
refused  to  fight  except  in  the  open.  I  have  even  heard 
of  a  snare  being  set  for  a  woman,  who,  though  repeat- 
edly warned,  persisted  in  carrying  news  from  one  side 
to  the  other.  A  musket  was  loaded  with  slugs  and 
placed  so  that  the  discharge  would  sweep  the  path 
that  it  was  believed  she  would  take.  A  string  was  tied 
to  the  trigger  and  stretched  across  the  foot  road  and 
a  mountaineer  waited  under  a  bluff  to  whistle,  so  that 
she  would  stop,  when  she  struck  the  string.  That 
night  the  woman  happened  to  take  another  path. 
This,  however,  is  the  sole  instance  I  have  ever  known. 
Elsewhere  the  Southern  mountaineer  holds  human 
life  as  cheap ;  elsewhere  he  is  ready  to  let  death  settle 
a  personal  dispute;  elsewhere  he  is  more  ignorant  and 
has  as  little  regard  for  law;  elsewhere  he  was  divided 
against  himself  by  the  war  and  was  left  in  sub- 
sequent conditions  just  as  lawless;  elsewhere  he  has 
similar  clannishness  of  feeling,  and  elsewhere  is  an 
occasional  feud  which  is  confined  to  family  and  close 
kindred.     But  nowhere  is  the  feud  so  common,  so 

38 


The  Kentucky  Mountaineer 

old,  so  persistent,  so  deadly,  as  in  the  Kentucky 
mountains.  Nowhere  else  is  there  such  organization, 
such  division  of  enmity  to  the  limit  of  kinship. 

About  thirty-five  years  ago  two  boys  were  playing 
marbles  in  the  road  along  the  Cumberland  River — 
down  in  the  Kentucky  mountains.  One  had  a  patch 
on  the  seat  of  his  trousers.  The  other  boy  made  fun 
of  it,  and  the  boy  with  the  patch  went  home  and  told 
his  father.  Thirty  years  of  local  war  was  the  result. 
The  factions  fought  on  after  they  had  forgotten  why 
they  had  fought  at  all.  While  organized  warfare  is 
now  over,  an  occasional  fight  yet  comes  over  the  patch 
on  those  trousers  and  a  man  or  two  is  killed.  A  county 
as  big  as  Rhode  Island  is  still  bitterly  divided  on  the 
subject.  In  a  race  for  the  legislature  not  long  ago, 
the  feud  was  the  sole  issue.  And,  without  knowing 
it,  perhaps,  a  mountaineer  carried  that  patch  like  a 
flag  to  victory,  and  sat  under  it  at  the  capital — making 
laws  for  the  rest  of  the  State. 

That  is  the  feud  that  has  stained  the  highland  border 
of  the  State  with  blood,  and  abroad,  has  engulfed  the 
reputation  of  the  lowland  blue-grass,  where  there  are, 
of  course,  no  feuds — a  fact  that  sometimes  seems  to 
require  emphasis,  I  am  sorry  to  say.  Almost  every 
mountain  county  has,  or  has  had,  its  feud.  On  one 
side  is  a  leader  whose  authority  is  rarely  questioned. 

39 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

Each  leader  has  his  band  of  retainers.  Always  he  arms 
them;  usually  he  feeds  them;  sometimes  he  houses 
and  clothes  them,  and  sometimes,  even,  he  hires  theii. 
In  one  local  war,  I  remember,  four  dollars  per  day 
were  the  wages  of  the  fighting  man,  and  the  leader 
on  one  occasion,  while  besieging  his  enemies — in  the 
county  court-house — tried  to  purchase  a  cannon,  and 
from  no  other  place  than  the  State  arsenal,  and  from 
no  other  personage  than  the  governor  himself. 

It  is  the  feud  that  most  sharply  differentiates  the 
Kentucky  mountaineer  from  his  fellows,  and  it  is 
extreme  isolation  that  makes  possible  in  this  age  such 
a  relic  of  mediaeval  barbarism.  For  the  feud  means, 
of  course,  ignorance,  shiftlessness,  incredible  lawless- 
ness, a  frightful  estimate  of  the  value  of  human  life; 
the  horrible  custom  of  ambush,  a  class  of  cowardly 
assassins  who  can  be  hired  to  do  murder  for  a  gun, 
a  mule,  or  a  gallon  of  moonshine. 

Now  these  are  the  blackest  shadows  in  the  only 
picture  of  Kentucky  mountain  life  that  has  reached 
the  light  of  print  through  the  press.  There  is  another 
side,  and  it  is  only  fair  to  show  it. 

The  feud  is  an  inheritance.  There  were  feuds  before 
the  war,  even  on  the  edge  of  the  blue-grass;  there 
were  fierce  family  fights  in  the  backwoods  before  and 
during  the  Revolution — when  the  war  between  Whig 

40 


The  Kentucky  Mountaineer 

and  Tory  served  as  a  pretext  for  satisfying  personal 
animosities  already  existing,  and  it  is  not  a  wild  fancy 
that  the  Kentucky  mountain  feud  takes  root  in  Scot- 
land. For,  while  it  is  hardly  possible  that  the  enmities 
of  the  Revolution  were  transmitted  to  the  Civil  War, 
it  is  quite  sure  that  whatever  race  instinct,  old-world 
trait  of  character,  or  moral  code  the  backwoodsman 
may  have  taken  with  him  into  the  mountains — it  is 
quite  sure  that  that  instinct,  that  trait  of  character, 
that  moral  code,  are  living  forces  in  him  to-day.  The 
late  war  was,  however,  the  chief  cause  of  feuds.  When 
it  came,  the  river-bottoms  were  populated,  the  clans 
were  formed.  There  were  more  slave-holders  among 
them  than  among  other  Southern  mountaineers.  For 
that  reason,  the  war  divided  them  more  evenly  against 
themselves,  and  set  them  fighting.  WTien  the  war 
stopped  elsewhere,  it  simply  kept  on  with  them,  be- 
cause they  were  more  isolated,  more  evenly  divided; 
because  they  were  a  fiercer  race,  and  because  the  issue 
had  become  personal.  The  little  that  is  going  on  now 
goes  on  for  the  same  reason,  for  while  civilization 
pressed  close  enough  in  1890  and  1891  to  put  an  end  to 
organized  fighting,  it  is  a  consistent  fact  that  after 
the  failure  of  Baring  Brothers,  and  the  stoppage  of  the 
flow  of  English  capital  into  the  mountains,  and  the 
check  to  railroads  and  civilization,  these  feuds  slowly 

41 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

started  up  again.  When  I  left  home  for  the  Cuban 
war,  two  companies  of  State  militia  were  on  their  way 
to  the  mountains  to  put  down  a  feud.  On  the  day  of 
the  Las  Guasimas  fight  these  feudsmen  fought,  and 
they  lost  precisely  as  many  men  killed  as  the  Rough 
Riders — eight. 

Again :  while  the  feud  may  involve  the  sympathies 
of  a  county,  the  number  of  men  actually  engaged  in 
it  are  comparatively  few.  Moreover,  the  feud  is 
strictly  of  themselves,  and  is  based  primarily  on  a  privi- 
lege that  the  mountaineer,  the  world  over,  has  most 
grudgingly  surrendered  to  the  law,  the  privilege  of 
avenging  his  private  wrongs.  The  non-partisan  and 
the  traveller  are  never  molested.  Property  of  the 
beaten  faction  is  never  touched.  The  women  are  safe 
from  harm,  and  I  have  never  heard  of  one  who  was 
subjected  to  insult.  Attend  to  your  own  business,  side 
vsdth  neither  faction  in  act  or  word  and  you  are  much 
safer  among  the  Kentucky  mountaineers,  when  a  feud 
is  going  on,  than  you  are  crossing  Broadway  at 
Twenty-third  Street.  As  you  ride  along,  a  bullet 
may  plough  through  the  road  ten  yards  in  front  of 
you.  That  means  for  you  to  halt.  A  mountaineer 
will  come  out  of  the  bushes  and  ask  who  you  are  and 
where  you  are  going  and  what  your  business  is.  If 
your  answers  are  satisfactory,  you  go  on  unmolested. 

42 


The  Kentucky  Mountaineer 

Asking  for  a  place  to  stay  all  night,  you  may  be  told, 
"  Go  to  So  and  So's  house;  he'll  pertect  ye;  "  and  he 
will,  too,  at  the  risk  of  his  own  life  when  you  are  past 
the  line  of  suspicion  and  under  his  roof. 

There  are  other  facts  that  soften  a  too  harsh  judg- 
ment of  the  mountaineer  and  his  feud — harsh  as  the 
judgment  should  be.  Personal  fealty  is  the  comer- 
stone  of  the  feud.  The  mountaineer  admits  no  higher 
law ;  he  understands  no  conscience  that  will  violate  that 
tie.  You  are  my  friend  or  my  kinsman ;  your  quarrel 
is  my  quarrel;  whoever  strikes  you,  strikes  me.  If 
you  are  in  trouble,  I  must  not  testify  against  you.  If 
you  are  an  officer,  you  must  not  an'est  me,  you  must 
send  me  word  to  come  into  court.  If  I'm  innocent, 
why,  maybe  I'll  come. 

Moreover,  the  worst  have  the  list  of  rude  virtues 
already  mentioned;  and,  besides,  the  mountaineer  is 
never  a  thief  nor  a  robber,  and  he  will  lie  about  one 
thing  and  one  thing  only,  and  that  is  land.  He  has 
cleared  it,  built  his  cabin  from  the  trees,  lived  on  it 
and  he  feels  that  any  means  necessary  to  hold  it  are 
justifiable.  Lastly,  religion  is  as  honestly  used  to 
cloak  deviltry  as  it  ever  was  in  the  Middle  Ages. 

A  feud  leader  who  had  about  exterminated  the  op- 
posing faction,  and  had  made  a  good  fortune  for  a 
mountaineer  while  doing  it,  for  he  kept  his  men  busy 

43 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

getting  out  timber  when  they  weren't  fighting,  said 
to  me,  in  all  seriousness: 

"  I  have  triumphed  agin  my  enemies  time  and  time 
agin.  The  Lord's  on  my  side,  and  I  gits  a  better  and 
better  Christian  ever'  year." 

A  preacher,  riding  down  a  ravine,  came  upon 
an  old  mountaineer  hiding  in  the  bushes  with  his 
rifle. 

"  What  are  you  doing  there,  my  friend?  " 

"  Ride  on,  stranger,"  was  the  easy  answer.  "  I'm 
a-waitin'  fer  Jim  Johnson,  and  with  the  help  of  the 
Lawd  I'm  goin'  to  blow  his  damn  head  off." 

Even  the  ambush,  the  hideous  feature  of  the  feud, 
took  root  in  the  days  of  the  Revolution,  and  was 
borrowed,  maybe,  from  the  Indians.  Milfort,  the 
Frenchman,  who  hated  the  backwoodsman,  says  Mr. 
Roosevelt,  describes  with  horror  their  extreme  malevo- 
lence and  their  murderous  disposition  toward  one  an- 
other. He  says  that  whether  a  wrong  had  been  done 
to  a  man  personally  or  to  his  family,  he  would,  if 
necessary,  travel  a  hundred  miles  and  lurk  around 
the  forest  indefinitely  to  get  a  chance  to  shoot  his 
enemy. 

But  the  Civil  War  was  the  chief  cause  of  bloodshed; 
for  there  is  evidence,  indeed,  that  though  feeling  be- 
tween families  was  strong,  bloodshed  was  rare  and  the 

44 


TKe  Kentucky  Mountaineer 

Englisli  sense  of  fairness  prevailed,  in  certain  com- 
munities at  least.  Often  you  shall  hear  an  old  moun- 
taineer say:  "  Folks  usen  to  talk  about  how  fer  they 
could  kill  a  deer.  Now  hit's  how  fer  they  can  kill 
a  man.  Why,  I  have  knowed  the  time  when  a  man 
would  hev  been  druv  outen  the  county  fer  drawin'  a 
knife  or  a  pistol,  an'  if  a  man  was  ever  killed,  hit  wus 
kinder  accidental  by  a  Barlow.  I  reckon  folks  got 
used  to  weepons  an'  killin'  an'  shootin'  from  the  bresh 
endurin'  the  war.  But  hit's  been  gettin'  wuss  ever 
sence,  and  now  hit's  dirk  an'  Winchester  all  the  time." 
Even  for  the  ambush  there  is  an  explanation. 

"  Oh,  I  know  all  the  excuses  folks  make.  Hit's 
fair  for  one  as  'tis  fer  t'other.  You  can't  fight  a  man 
far  and  squar  who'll  shoot  you  in  the  back.  A  pore 
man  can't  fight  money  in  the  courts.  Thar  hain't  no 
witnesses  in  the  lorrel  but  leaves,  an'  dead  men  don't 
hev  much  to  say.  I  know  hit  all.  Looks  like  lots  o' 
decent  young  folks  hev  got  usen  to  the  idee;  thar's 
80  much  of  it  goin'  on  and  thar's  so  much  talk  about 
shootin'  from  the  bresh.  I  do  reckon  hit's  wuss'n 
stealin'  to  take  a  feller  critter's  life  that  way," 

It  is  also  a  fact  that  most  of  the  men  who  have  been 
engaged  in  these  fights  were  born,  or  were  children, 
during  the  war,  and  were,  in  consequence,  accustomed 
to  bloodshed  and  bushwhacking  from  infancy.     Still, 

45 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

even  among  the  fighters  there  is  often  a  strong  preju- 
dice against  the  ambush,  and  in  most  feuds,  one  or  the 
other  side  discountenances  it,  and  that  is  the  faction 
usually  defeated.  I  know  of  one  family  that  was  one 
by  one  exterminated  because  they  refused  to  take  to 
the  "  bresh." 

Again,  the  secret  of  the  feud  is  isolation.  In  the 
mountains  the  war  kept  on  longer,  for  personal  hatred 
supplanted  its  dead  issues.  Railroads  and  newspapers 
have  had  their  influence  elsewhere.  Elsewhere  court 
circuits  include  valley  people.  Civilization  has  pressed 
slowly  on  the  Kentucky  mountains.  The  Kentucky 
mountaineer,  until  quite  lately,  has  been  tried,  when 
brought  to  trial  at  all,  by  the  Kentucky  mountaineer. 
And  when  a  man  is  tried  for  a  crime  by  a  man  who 
would  commit  that  crime  under  the  same  circum- 
stances, punishment  is  not  apt  to  follow. 

Thus  the  influence  that  has  helped  most  to  break 
up  the  feud  is  trial  in  the  Blue-grass,  for  there  is  no 
ordeal  the  mountaineer  more  hates  than  trial  by  a  jury 
of  bigoted  "  furriners." 

Who  they  are — these  Southern  mountaineers — is 
a  subject  of  endless  conjecture  and  dispute — a  question 
that  perhaps  will  never  be  satisfactorily  solved.  While 
there  are  among  them  the  descendants  of  the  old  bond 
servant  and  redemptioner  class,  of  vicious    runaway 

46 


The  Kentucky  Mountaineer 

criminals  and  the  trashiest  of  the  poor  whites,  the 
ruling  class  has  undoubtedly  come  from  the  old  free 
settlers,  English,  German,  Swiss,  French  Huguenot, 
even  Scotch  and  Scotch-Irish.  As  the  German  and 
Swiss  are  easily  traced  to  North  Carohna,  the  Hugue- 
nots to  South  Carolina  and  parts  of  Georgia,  it  is  more 
than  probable,  from  the  scant  study  that  has  been 
given  the  question,  that  the  strongest  and  largest  cur- 
rent of  blood  in  their  veins  comes  from  none  other 
than  the  mighty  stream  of  Scotch-Irish. 

Briefly,  the  theory  is  this:  From  1720  to  1780,  the 
settlers  in  southwest  Virginia,  middle  North  Carolina 
and  western  South  Carolina  were  chiefly  Scotch  and 
Scotch-Irish.  They  were  active  in  the  measures  pre- 
ceding the  outbreak  of  the  Revolution,  and  they 
declared  independence  at  Abington,  Va.,  even  before 
they  did  at  Mecklenburg,  N.  C.  In  these  districts 
they  were  the  largest  element  in  the  patriot  army,  and 
they  were  greatly  impoverished  by  the  war.  Being 
too  poor  or  too  conscientious  to  own  slaves,  and  unable 
to  compete  with  them  as  the  planter's  field  hand,  black- 
smith, carpenter,  wheehvright,  and  man-of-all-work, 
especially  after  the  invention  of  the  cotton-gin  in 
1792,  they  had  no  employment  and  were  driven  to 
mountain  and  sand-hill.  There  are  some  good  reasons 
for  the  theory.     Among  prominent  mountain  fami- 

47 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

lies  direct  testimony  or  unquestioned  tradition  point 
usually  to  Scotch-Irish  ancestry,  sometimes  to  pure 
Scotch  origin,  sometimes  to  English.  Scotch-Irish 
family  names  in  abundance  speak  for  themselves,  as 
do  folk-words  and  folk-songs  and  the  characteristics, 
mental,  moral,  and  physical,  of  the  people.  Broadly 
speaking,  the  Southern  mountaineers  are  characterized 
as  "  peaceable,  civil,  good-natured,  kind,  clever,  nat- 
urally witty,  with  a  fair  share  of  common-sense,  and 
morals  not  conscientiously  bad,  since  they  do  not 
consider  ig-norance,  idleness,  poverty,  or  the  ex- 
cessive use  of  tobacco  or  moonshine  as  immoral  or 
vicious." 

Another  student  says:  "  The  majority  is  of  good 
blood,  honest,  law-abiding  blood."  Says  still  another: 
"  They  are  ignorant  of  books,  but  sharp  as  a  rule." 
Says  another :  "  They  have  great  reverence  for  the 
Bible,  and  are  sturdy,  loyal,  and  tenacious."  More- 
over, the  two  objections  to  this  theory  that  would 
naturally  occur  to  anyone  have  easy  answers.  The 
mountaineers  are  not  Presbyterian  and  they  are  not 
thrifty.  Curiously  enough,  testimony  exists  to  the 
effect  that  certain  Methodist  or  Baptist  churches  were 
once  Presbyterian;  and  many  preachers  of  these  two 
denominations  had  grandfathers  who  were  Presby- 
terian ministers.     The  Methodists  and  Baptists  were 

48 


The  Kentucky  Mountaineer 

perhaps  more  active;  they  were  more  popular  in  the 
mountains  as  they  were  in  the  backwoods,  because  they 
were  more  democratic  and  more  emotional.  The  back- 
woodsman did  not  like  the  preacher  to  be  a  preacher 
only.     He,  too,  must  work  with  his  hands. 

Scotch-Irish  thriftiness  decayed.  The  soil  waa 
poor;  game  was  abundant;  hunting  bred  idleness. 
There  were  no  books,  no  schools,  few  church  privileges, 
a  poorly  educated  ministry,  and  the  present  illiteracy, 
thriftlessness,  and  poverty  were  easy  results.  Deed- 
books  show  that  the  ancestors  of  men  who  now  make 
their  mark,  often  wrote  a  good  hand. 

Such,  briefly,  is  the  Southern  mountaineer  in  gen- 
eral, and  the  Kentucky  mountaineer  in  particular. 
Or,  rather,  such  he  was  until  fifteen  years  ago,  and 
to  know  him  now  you  must  know  him  as  he  was 
then,  for  the  changes  that  have  been  wrought  in  the 
last  decade  affect  localities  only,  and  the  bulk  of  the 
mountain-people  is,  practically,  still  what  it  was  one 
hundred  years  ago.  Still,  changes  have  taken  place 
and  changes  will  take  place  now  swiftly,  and  it 
rests  largely  with  the  outer  world  what  these  changes 
shall  be. 

The  vanguards  of  civilization — railroads — unless 
quickly  followed  by  schools  and  churches,  at  the  ratio 
of  four  schools  to  one  church,  have  a  bad  effect  on 

49 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

the  Southern  mountaineer.  He  catches  up  the  vices 
of  the  incoming  current  only  too  readily.  The  fine 
spirit  of  his  hospitality  is  worn  away.  He  goes  to  some 
little  "  boom  "  town,  is  forced  to  pay  the  enormous 
sum  of  fifty  cents  for  his  dinner,  and  when  you 
go  his  way  again,  you  pay  fifty  cents  for  yours.  Care- 
lessly applied  charity  weakens  his  pride,  makes  him 
dependent.  You  hear  of  arrests  for  petty  thefts  some- 
times, occasionally  burglaries  are  made,  and  the  moun- 
taineer is  cowed  by  the  superior  numbers,  superior 
intelligence  of  the  incomer,  and  he  seems  to  lose  his 
sturdy  self-respect. 

And  yet  the  result  could  easily  be  far  different. 
Not  long  ago  I  talked  with  an  intelligent  young  fellow, 
a  young  minister,  who  had  taught  among  them  many 
years,  exclusively  in  the  Kentucky  mountains,  and  is 
now  preaching  to  them.  He  says,  they  are  more 
tractably,  more  easily  moulded,  more  easily  uplifted 
than  the  people  of  a  similar  grade  of  intelligence  in 
cities.  He  gave  an  instance  to  illustrate  their  general 
susceptibility  in  all  ways.  When  he  took  charge  of 
a  certain  school,  every  boy  and  girl,  nearly  all  of  them 
grown,  chewed  tobacco.  The  teacher  before  him  used 
tobacco  and  even  exchanged  it  with  his  pupils.  He 
told  them  at  once  they  must  stop.  They  left  off  in- 
stantly. 

SO 


The  Kentucky  Mountaineer 

It  was  a  "  blab  "  school,  as  the  mountaineers  char- 
acterize a  school  in  which  the  pupils  study  aloud.  He 
put  an  end  to  that  in  one  day,  and  he  soon  told  them 
they  must  stop  talking  to  one  another.  After  school 
they  said  they  didn't  think  they  could  ever  do  that, 
but  they  did.  In  another  county,  ten  years  ago,  he 
had  ten  boys  and  girls  gathered  to  organize  a  Sunday- 
school.  None  had  ever  been  to  Sunday-school  and 
only  two  knew  what  a  Sunday-school  was.  He  an- 
nounced that  he  would  organize  one  at  that  place  a 
week  later.  When  he  reached  the  spot  the  following 
Sunday,  there  were  seventy-five  young  mountaineers 
there.  They  had  sung  themselves  quite  hoarse  wait- 
ing for  him,  and  he  was  an  hour  early.  The  Sunday- 
school  was  founded,  built  up  and  developed  into  a 
church. 

When  the  first  printing-press  was  taken  to  a  certain 
mountain-town  in  1882,  a  deputation  of  citizens  met 
it  three  miles  from  town  and  swore  that  it  should  go 
no  farther.  An  old  preacher  mounted  the  wagon  and 
drove  it  into  town.  Later  the  leader  of  that  crowd 
owned  the  printing-press  and  ran  it.  In  this  town 
are  two  academies  for  the  education  of  the  moun- 
taineer. Young  fellows  come  there  from  every  moun- 
tain-county and  work  their  way  through.  They  curry 
horses,  carry  water,  work  about  the  houses — do  every- 

51 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

thing;  many  of  them  cook  for  themselves  and  live 
on  four  dollars  a  month.  They  are  quick-witted, 
strong-minded,  sturdy,  tenacious,  and  usually  very 
religious. 

Indeed,  people  who  have  been  among  the  Southern 
mountaineers  testify  that,  as  a  race,  they  are  proud, 
sensitive,  hospitable,  kindly,  obliging  in  an  unreckon- 
ing  way  that  is  almost  pathetic,  honest,  loyal,  in  spite 
of  their  common  ignorance,  poverty,  and  isolation ;  that 
they  are  naturally  capable,  eager  to  learn,  easy  to 
uplift.  Americans  to  the  core,  they  make  the  South- 
ern mountains  a  store-house  of  patriotism;  in  them- 
selves, they  are  an  important  offset  to  the  Old  World 
outcasts  whom  we  have  welcomed  to  our  shores;  and 
they  surely  deserve  as  much  consideration  from  the 
nation  as  the  negroes,  for  whom  we  have  done,  and 
are  doing  so  much,  or  as  the  heathen,  to  whom  we 
give  millions. 

I  confess  that  I  have  given  prominence  to  the  best 
features  of  mountain  life  and  character,  for  the  reason 
that  the  worst  will  easily  make  their  own  way.  It  is 
only  fair  to  add,  however,  that  nothing  that  has  ever 
been  said  of  the  mountaineer's  ignorance,  shiftlessness, 
and  awful  disregard  of  human  life,  especially  in  the 
Kentucky  mountains,  that  has  not  its  basis,  perhaps, 
in  actual  fact. 

52 


The  Kentucky  Mountaineer 

First,  last,  and  always,  however,  it  is  to  be  remem- 
bered that  to  begin  to  understand  the  Southern  moun- 
taineers you  must  go  back  to  the  social  conditions 
and  standards  of  the  backwoods  before  the  Revolu- 
tion, for  practically  they  are  the  backwoods  people  and 
the  backwoods  conditions  of  pre-Revolutionary  days. 
Many  of  their  ancestors  fought  with  ours  for  American 
independence.  They  were  loyal  to  the  Union  for 
one  reason  that  no  historian  seems  ever  to  have  guessed. 
For  the  loyalty  of  1861  was,  in  great  part,  merely 
the  transmitted  loyalty  of  1776,  imprisoned  like  a 
fossil  in  the  hills.  Precisely  for  the  same  reason,  the 
mountaineer's  estimate  of  the  value  of  human  life,  of 
the  sanctity  of  the  law,  of  a  duty  that  overrides  either 
— the  duty  of  one  blood  kinsman  to  another — is  the 
estimate  of  that  day  and  not  of  this;  and  it  is  by  the 
standards  of  that  day  and  not  of  this  that  he  is  to  be 
judged.  To  understand  the  mountaineer,  then,  you 
must  go  back  to  the  Revolution.  To  do  him  justice 
you  must  give  him  the  awful  ordeal  of  a  century  of 
isolation  and  consequent  ignorance  in  which  to  de- 
teriorate. Do  that  and  your  wonder,  perhaps,  that  he 
is  so  bad  becomes  a  wonder  that  he  is  not  worse.  To 
my  mind,  there  is  but  one  strain  of  American  blood 
that  could  have  stood  that  ordeal  quite  so  well,  and 
that  comes  from  the  sturdy  Scotch-Irish  who  are  slowly 

■53 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

wresting  from  Puritan  and  Cavalier  an  equal  share 
of  tlie  glory  that  belongs  to  the  three  for  the  part 
played  on  the  world's  stage  by  this  land  in  the  heroic 
role  of  Liberty. 


54 


Down  the  Kentucky  on  a  Raft 


Down  the  Kentucky  on  a  Raft 

THE  heart  of  the  Blue-grass  in  the  middle  of  a 
sunny  afternoon.  An  hour  thence,  through  a 
rolling  sweep  of  greening  earth  and  woodland, 
through  the  low,  poor  hills  of  the  brush  country  and 
into  the  oasis  of  Indian  Old  Fields,  rich  in  level 
meadow-lands  and  wheat-fields.  In  the  good  old  days 
of  the  war-whoop  and  the  scalping-knife,  the  savage 
had  there  one  of  the  only  two  villages  that  he  ever 
planted  in  the  "  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground."  There 
Daniel  Boone  camped  one  night  and  a  pioneer  read 
him  "  Gulliver's  Travels,"  and  the  great  Daniel  called 
the  little  stream  at  their  feet  Lullibigrub — which  name 
it  bears  to-day.  Another  hour  between  cliffs  and 
pointed  peaks  and  castled  rocky  summits,  and  through 
laurel  and  rhododendron  to  the  Three  Forks  of  the 
Kentucky.  Up  the  Middle  Fork  then  and  at  dusk 
the  end  of  the  railroad  in  the  heart  of  the  mountains 
and  Jackson — the  county-seat  of  "  Bloody  Breathitt  " 
—once  the  seat  of  a  lively  feud  and  still  the  possible 

57 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

seat  of  another,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  with  a  manual 
training-school  and  a  branch  of  a  Blue-grass  college,  it 
is  also  the  seat  of  learning  and  culture  for  the  region 
drained  by  Cutshin,  Hell-fer-Sartain,  Kingdom  Come, 
and  other  little  streams  of  a  nomenclature  not  less 
picturesque.  Even  Hell-fer-Sartain  is  looking  up.  A 
pious  lady  has  established  a  Sunday-school  on  Hell-fer- 
Sartain.  A  humorous  bookseller  has  offered  to  give 
it  a  library  on  the  condition  that  he  be  allowed  to 
design  a  book-plate  for  the  volumes.  And  the  Sun- 
day-school is  officially  known  as  the  "  Hell-fer-Sartain 
Sunday-school."  From  all  these  small  tributaries  of 
the  Kentucky,  the  mountaineer  floats  logs  down  the 
river  to  the  capital  in  the  Blue-grass.  Not  many 
years  ago  that  was  his  chief  reason  and  his  only  one 
for  going  to  the  Blue-grass,  and  down  the  Kentucky 
on  a  raft  was  the  best  way  for  him  to  get  there.  He 
got  back  on  foot.  But,  coming  or  going,  by  steam, 
water,  horseback,  or  afoot,  the  trip  is  well  worth  while. 
At  Jackson  a  man  with  a  lantern  put  me  in  a 
"  hack,"  drove  me  aboard  a  flat  boat,  ferried  me  over 
with  a  rope  cable,  cracked  his  whip,  and  we  went  up 
a  steep,  muddy  bank  into  the  town.  All  through  the 
Cumberland  valleys,  nowadays,  little  "  boom  "  towns 
with  electric  lights,  water-works,  and  a  street-railway 
make  one  think  of  the  man  who  said  "  give  him  the 

58 


Down  the  Kentucky  on  a  Raft 

luxuries  of  life  and  he  would  do  without  the  neces- 
saries." I  did  not  know  that  Jackson  had  ever  had 
a  boom,  but  I  thought  so  when  I  saw  between  the  flap- 
ping curtains  of  the  "  hack  "  what  seemed  to  be  a 
white  sidewalk  of  solid  cement. 

"  Hello,"  I  said,  "  is  that  a  sidewalk?  "  The  driver 
grunted,  quickly: 

"  Hit's  the  side  you  walk  on !  " 

A  wheel  of  the  hack  went  down  to  the  hub  in  mud 
just  then  and  I  felt  the  force  of  his  humor  better  next 
morning — I  was  to  get  such  humor  in  plenty  on  the 
trip — when  I  went  back  to  the  river  that  same  way. 
It  was  not  a  sidewalk  of  cement  but  a  whitewashed 
board  fence  that  had  looked  level  in  the  dark,  and 
except  along  a  muddy  foot-wide  path  close  to  the  fence, 
passing  there,  for  anything  short  of  a  stork  on  stilts, 
looked  dangerous.  I  have  known  mules  to  drown  in 
a  mountain  mud-hole. 

The  "  tide,"  as  the  mountaineep  calls  a  flood,  had 
come  the  day  before  and,  as  I  feared,  the  rafts  were 
gone.  Many  of  them  had  passed  in  the  night,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  give  chase.  So  I  got 
a  row-boat  and  a  mountaineer,  and,  taking  turns  at  the 
oars,  we  sped  down  the  swift  yellow  water  at  the  clip- 
ping rate  of  ten  miles  an  hour. 

As  early  as  the  late  days  of  August  the  mountaineer 
59 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

goes  "  logging  "  in  order  to  cut  the  trees  before  the 
sap  rises,  so  that  the  logs  can  dry  better  all  winter  and 
float  better  in  the  spring.  Before  frost  comes,  on 
river-bank,  hill-side,  and  mountain-top,  the  cool  morn- 
ing air  is  resonant  with  the  ring  of  axes,  the  singing 
whistle  of  big  saws,  the  crash  of  giant  poplar  and  oak 
and  chestnut  down  through  the  lesser  growth  under 
them,  and  the  low  boom  that  echoes  through  the 
woods  when  the  big  trees  strike  the  earth.  All  winter 
this  goes  on.  With  the  hammer  of  the  woodpecker 
in  the  early  spring,  you  hear  the  cries  of  ox-drivers 
"  snaking  "  the  logs  down  the  mountain-side  to  the 
edge  of  some  steep  cliff,  where  they  are  tumbled  pell- 
mell  straight  down  to  the  bank  of  the  river,  or  the 
bank  of  some  little  creek  that  runs  into  it.  It  takes 
eight  yoke  of  oxen,  sometimes,  to  drag  the  heart  of  a 
monarch  to  the  chute,  and  there  the  logs  are  "  rafted  " 
— as  the  mountaineer  calls  the  work;  that  is,  they  are 
rolled  with  hand-spikes  into  the  water  and  lashed  side 
by  side  with  split  saplings — lengthwise  in  the  broad 
Big  Sandy,  broadside  in  the  narrow  Kentucky.  Every 
third  or  fourth  log  is  a  poplar,  because  that  wood  is 
buoyant  and  will  help  float  the  chestnut  and  the  oak. 
At  bow  and  stern,  a  huge  long  limber  oar  is  rigged  on 
a  turning  stile,  the  raft  is  anchored  to  a  tree  with  a 
cable  of  rope  or  grapevine,  and  there  is  a  patient  wait 

60 


Down  the  Kentucky  on  a  Raft 

for  a  "  tide."  Some  day  in  March  or  April — some- 
times not  until  May — mist  and  clouds  loose  the  rain 
in  torrents,  the  neighbors  gather,  the  cable  is  slipped, 
and  the  raft  swings  out  the  mouth  of  the  creek  on  its 
long  way  to  the  land  of  which,  to  this  day,  the  average 
mountaineer  knows  hardly  less  than  that  land  knows 
of  him. 

Steadily  that  morning  we  kept  the  clumsy  row-boat 
sweeping  around  green-buttressed  points  and  long 
bends  of  the  river,  between  high  vertical  cliffs  over- 
spread with  vines  and  streaked  white  with  waterfalls, 
through  boiling  eddies  and  long,  swift,  waving  riffles, 
in  an  exhilaration  that  seems  to  come  to  running  blood 
and  straining  muscles  only  in  lonely  wilds.  Once  a 
boy  shied  a  stone  down  at  us  from  the  point  of  a  clifE 
hundreds  of  feet  sheer  overhead. 

"  I  wish  I  had  my  44,"  said  the  mountaineer,  look- 
ing wistfully  upward. 

"  You  wouldn't  shoot  at  him?  " 

"  I'd  sheer  him  a  leetle,  I  reckon,"  he  said,  dryly, 
and  then  he  told  me  stories  of  older  and  fiercer  days 
when  each  man  carried  a  "  gun,"  and  often  had  to 
use  it  to  secure  a  landing  on  dark  nights  when  the  log- 
gers had  to  tie  up  to  the  bank.  When  the  moon 
shines,  the  rafts  keep  going  night  and  day. 

"  When  the  river's  purty  swift,  you  know,  it's  hard 
6i 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

to  stop  a  raft.  I've  seen  a  raft  slash  down  through 
the  bushes  for  two  miles  before  a  fellow  could  git  a 
rope  around  a  tree.  So  sometimes  we  had  to  ketch 
hold  of  another  feller's  raft  that  was  already  tied  up, 
and,  as  there  was  danger  o'  puUin'  his  loose,  the  f  eller'd 
try  to  keep  us  off.  That's  whar  the  44's  come  in. 
And  they  do  it  yit,"  he  said,  as,  later,  I  learned  for 
myself. 

Here  and  there  were  logs  and  splintered  saplings 
thrown  out  on  the  bank  of  the  river — signs  of  wreck- 
age where  a  raft  had  "  bowed  " ;  that  is,  the  bow  had 
struck  the  bank  at  the  bend  of  the  river,  the  stem  had 
swung  around  to  the  other  shore,  and  the  raft  had 
hunched  up  in  the  middle  like  a  bucking  horse. 
Standing  upright,  the  mountaineer  can  ride  a  single 
log  down  a  swift  stream,  even  when  his  weight  sinks 
it  a  foot  or  two  under  the  surface,  but  he  finds  it  hard 
and  dangerous  to  stay  aboard  a  raft  when  it  "  bows." 

"  I  was  bringin'  a  raft  out  o'  Leatherwood  Creek 
below  heah  " — only  that  was  not  the  name  he  gave 
the  creek — "  and  we  bowed  just  before  we  got  to  the 
river.  Thar  was  a  kind  of  a  idgit  on  board  who  was 
just  a-ridin'  down  the  creek  fer  fun,  and  when  I  was 
throwed  out  in  the  woods  I  seed  him  go  up  in  the  air 
and  come  down  kerflop  in  the  water.  He  went  under 
the  raft,  and  crawled  out  about  two  hundred  yavdp 

62 


Down  the  Kentucky  on  a  Raft 

down  the  river.  We  axed  him  to  git  on  agin,  but 
that  idgit  showed  more  sense  than  I  knowed  he  had. 
He  said  he'd  heerd  o'  hell  and  high  water,  and  he'd 
been  under  one  and  mighty  close  to  t'other,  and  he 
reckoned  he'd  stay  whar  he  was." 

It  was  getting  toward  noon  now.  We  had  made 
full  forty  miles,  and  Leatherwood  was  the  next  stream 
below. 

"  We  mought  ketch  a  raft  thar,"  said  the  moun- 
taineer; and  we  did.  Sweeping  around  the  bend  I 
saw  a  raft  two  hundred  feet  long  at  the  mouth  of  the 
creek — tugging  at  its  anchor — and  a  young  giant  of  a 
mountaineer  pushing  the  bow-oar  to  and  fro  through 
the  water  to  test  its  suppleness.  He  had  a  smile  of 
pure  delight  on  his  bearded,  winning  face  when  we 
shot  the  row-boat  alongside. 

"  I  tell  you,  Jim,"  he  said,  "  hit's  a  sweet-pullin' 
oar." 

"  It  shorely  is,  Tom,"  said  Jim.  "  Heah's  a  furri- 
ner  that  wants  to  go  down  the  river  with  ye." 

"  All  right,"  said  the  giant,  hospitably.  "  We're 
goin'  just  as  soon  as  we  can  git  off." 

On  the  bank  was  a  group  of  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren gathered  to  watch  the  departure.  In  a  basin  of 
the  creek  above,  men  up  to  their  waists  in  water  were 
"  rafting  "  logs.     Higher  above  was  a  chute,  and  down 

63 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

it  rolled  more  logs,  jumping  from  end  to  end,  like  jack- 
straws.  Higher,  I  could  hear  the  hammer  of  a  wood- 
pecker; higher  still,  the  fluting  of  a  wood-thrush,  and 
still  higher,  an  ox-driver's  sharp  cry.  The  vivid  hues 
of  dress  and  shawl  on  the  bank  seemed  to  strike  out 
sharply  every  color-note  in  the  green  wall  behind  them, 
straight  up  to  the  mountain-top.  It  was  as  primitive 
and  simple  as  Arcady. 

Down  the  bank  came  old  Ben  Sanders,  as  I  learned 
later,  shouting  his  good-byes,  without  looking  behind 
him  as  he  slipped  down  the  bank.  Close  after  him, 
his  son,  young  Ben,  with  a  huge  pone  of  corn-bread 
three  feet  square.  The  boy  was  so  trembling  with 
excitement  over  his  first  trip  that  he  came  near  drop- 
ping it.  Then  a  mountaineer  with  lank,  long  hair, 
the  scholar  of  the  party,  and  Tim,  guilty  of  humor  but 
once  on  the  trip — solemn  Tim.  Two  others  jumped 
aboard  with  bacon  and  coffee — passengers  like  myself. 
Tom  stood  on  shore  with  one  hand  on  the  cable,  while 
he  said  something  now  and  then  to  a  girl  in  crimson 
homespun  who  stood  near,  looking  downward.  N^ow 
and  then  one  of  the  other  women  would  look  at  the 
two  and  laugh. 

"  All  right  now,  Tom,"  shouted  old  Ben,  "  let  her 
loose!  " 

Tom  thrust  out  his  hand,  which  the  girl  took  shyly. 
64 


Down  the  Kentucky  on  a  Raft 

"Don't  fergit,  Tom,"  she  said.  Tom  laughed — 
there  was  little  danger  that  Tom  would  forget — and 
with  one  twist  of  his  sinewy  hands  he  threw  the  loop 
of  the  grapevine  clear  of  the  tree  and,  for  all  his  great 
bulk,  sprang  like  a  cat  aboard  the  raft,  which  shot  for- 
ward with  such  lightness  that  I  was  nearly  thrown 
from  my  feet. 

"  Good-by,  Ben!  » 

"Good-by,  Molly!" 

"  So  long,  boys!  " 

"  Don't  you  fergit  that  caliker,  now,  Ben." 

"  I  won't." 

"  Tom,"  called  a  mountaineer,  "  ef  you  git  drunk 
an'  spend  yo'  money,  Nance  heah  says  she  won't  marry 
ye  when  you  come  back."  Nance  slapped  at  the  fel- 
low, and  the  giant  smiled.     Then  one  piping  voice: 

"  Don't  fergit  my  terbacky,  Ben." 

"  All  right.  Granny — I  won't,"  answered  old  Ben, 
and,  as  we  neared  the  bend  of  the  river,  he  cried  back: 

"  Take  that  saddle  home  I  borrowed  o'  Joe  Thomas, 
an'  don't  fergit  to  send  that  side  of  bacon  to  Mandy 
Longnecker,  an' — an' — "  and  then  I  got  a  last  glimpse 
of  the  women  shading  their  patient  eyes  to  watch  the 
lessening  figures  on  the  raft  and  the  creaking  oars  flash- 
ing white  in  the  sunlight;  and  I  thought  of  them  go- 
ing back  to  their  lonely  little  cabins  on  this  creek  to 

65 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

await  the  home-coming  of  the  men.  If  the  mountain- 
women  have  any  curiosity  about  that  distant  land,  the 
Blue-grass  "  settlemints/'they  never  show  it.  I  have 
never  known  a  mountain-woman  to  go  down  the  river 
on  a  raft.  Perhaps  they  don't  care  to  ga;  perhaps  it 
is  not  proper,  for  their  ideas  of  propriety  are  very 
strict;  perhaps  the  long  trip  back  on  foot  deterred  them 
so  long  that  the  habit  of  not  going  is  too  strong  to 
overcome.  And  then  if  they  did  go,  who  would  tend 
the  ever-present  baby  in  arms,  the  ever-numerous  chil- 
dren; make  the  garden  and  weed  and  hoe  the  young 
corn  for  the  absent  lord  and  master.  I  suppose  it  was 
generations  of  just  such  lonely  women,  waiting  at  their 
cabins  in  pioneer  days  for  the  men  to  come  home, 
that  gives  the  mountain-woman  the  brooding  look  of 
pathos  that  so  touches  the  stranger's  heart  to-day; 
and  it  is  the  watching  to-day  that  will  keep  unchanged 
that  look  of  vacant  sadness  for  generations  to  come. 

"  Ease  her  up  now !  "  called  old  Ben — we  were 
making  our  first  turn — and  big  Tom  at  the  bow,  and 
young  Ben  and  the  scholar  at  the  stem  oar,  swept  the 
white  saplings  through  the  water  with  a  terrific  swish. 
Footholes  had  been  cut  along  the  logs,  and  in  these 
the  men  stuck  their  toes  as  they  pushed,  with  both 
hands  on  the  oar  and  the  oar  across  their  breasts.  At 
the  end  of  the  stroke,  they  threw  the  oar  down  and  up 

66 


Down  the  Kentucky  on  a  Raft 

with  rhythm  and  dash.  Then  they  went  back  on  a 
run  to  begin  another  stroke. 

"  Ease  her  up — ease  her  up,"  said  old  Ben,  sooth- 
ingly, and  then,  suddenly: 

"  Hit  her  up — hit  her  up — hell!  " 

Solemn  Tim  began  to  look  ashore  for  a  good  place 
to  jump.  The  bow  barely  slipped  past  the  bend  of  the 
river. 

"That  won't  do,"  said  old  Ben  again;  "Hell!" 
Big  Tom  looked  as  crestfallen  as  a  school-boy,  and  said 
nothing — we  had  just  escaped  "  bowing  "  on  our  first 
turn.  Ten  minutes  later  we  swept  into  the  Narrows 
— the  "  Nahrers  "  as  the  mountaineer  says;  and  it 
was  quick  and  dangerous  work  keeping  the  unwieldy 
craft  from  striking  a  bowlder,  or  the  solid  wall  of  a 
vertical  cliff  that  on  either  side  rose  straight  upward, 
for  the  river  was  pressed  into  a  narrow  channel,  and 
ran  with  terrific  force.  It  was  one  long  exhilarating 
thrill  going  through  those  Narrows,  and  everybody 
looked  relieved  when  we  slipped  out  of  them  into 
broad  water,  which  ran  straight  for  half  a  mile — 
where  the  oars  were  left  motionless  and  the  men  got 
back  their  breath  and  drew  their  pipes  and  bottles.  I 
knew  the  innocent  white  liquor  that  revenue  man  and 
mountaineer  call  "  moonshine,"  and  a  wary  sip  or  two 
was  enough  for  me.     Along  with  the  bottle  came  the 

67 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

inevitable  first  question  that,  under  any  and  all  circum- 
stances, every  mountaineer  asks  the  stranger,  no  mat- 
ter if  the  stranger  has  asked  him  a  question  first. 
"  Well,  stranger,  what  mought  yo'  name  be  ? " 
Answering  that,  you  are  expected  to  tell  in  the  same 
breath,  as  well,  what  your  business  is.  I  knew  it  was 
useless  to  tell  mine — it  would  not  have  been  under- 
stood, and  would  have  engendered  suspicion.  I  was 
at  Jackson;  I  had  long  wanted  to  go  down  the  river 
on  a  raft,  and  I  let  them  think  that  I  was  going  for 
curiosity  and  fun;  but  I  am  quite  sure  they  were  not 
wholly  satisfied  until  I  had  given  them  ground  to  be- 
lieve that  I  could  afford  the  trip  for  fun,  by  taking 
them  up  to  the  hotel  that  night  for  supper,  and  giv- 
ing them  some  very  bad  cigars.  For,  though  the 
moon  was  full,  the  sky  was  black  with  clouds,  and  old 
Ben  said  we  must  tie  up  for  the  night.  That  tying 
up  was  exciting  work.  The  raft  was  worked  cautious- 
ly toward  the  shore,  and  a  man  stood  at  bow  and  stern 
with  a  rope,  waiting  his  chance  to  jump  ashore  and 
coil  it  about  a  tree.  Tom  jumped  first,  and  I  never 
realized  what  the  momentum  of  the  raft  was  until  I 
saw  him,  as  he  threw  the  rope  about  a  tree,  jerked 
like  a  straw  into  the  bushes,  the  rope  torn  from  his 
hands,  and  heard  the  raft  crashing  down  through  the 
undergrowth.     Tom  gave  chase  along  the  bank,  and 

68 


Down  the  Kentucky  on  a  Raft 

everybody  yelled  and  ran  to  and  fro.  It  was  crash — 
swish — bump — ^grind  and  crash  again;  and  it  was  only 
by  the  hardest  work  at  the  clumsy  oars  that  we  kept 
the  raft  off  the  shore.  From  a  rock  Tom  made  a  fly- 
ing leap  aboard  again,  and  luckily  the  river  broadened 
there,  and  just  past  the  point  of  a  thicket  we  came 
upon  another  raft  already  anchored.  The  boy  Ben 
picked  up  his  rope  and  prepared  to  leap  aboard  the 
stranger,  from  the  other  end  of  which  a  mountaineer 
ran  toward  us. 

"  Keep  off,"  he  shouted,  "  keep  off,  I  tell  ye,"  but 
the  boy  paid  no  attention,  and  the  other  man  pulled 
his  pistol.  Ben  dropped  his  rope,  then  looked  around, 
laughed,  picked  up  his  rope  again  and  jumped  aboard. 
The  fellow  lowered  his  pistol  and  swore.  I  looked 
around,  too,  then.  Every  man  on  board  with  us  had 
his  pistol  in  his  hand.  We  tugged  the  stranger's  cable 
sorely,  but  it  held  him  fast  and  he  held  us  fast,  and 
the  tying  up  was  done. 

"  He'd  'a'  done  us  the  same  way,"  said  old  Ben,  in 
palliation. 

Next  day  it  was  easy  sailing  most  of  the  time, 
and  we  had  long  rests  from  the  oars,  and  we 
smoked,  and  the  bottles  were  slowly  emptied,  one  by 
one,  while  the  mountaineers  "  jollied  "  each  other  and 
told  drawling  stories.     Once  we  struck  a  long  eddy, 

69 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

and  were  caught  by  it  and  swept  back  up-stream;  twice 
this  happened  before  we  could  get  in  the  current  again. 
Then  they  all  laughed  and  "  jollied  "  old  Ben. 

It  seemed  that  the  old  fellow  had  taken  too  much 
one  dark  night  and  had  refused  to  tie  up.  There  was 
a  house  at  the  head  of  this  eddy,  and  when  he  struck 
it  there  was  a  gray  horse  hitched  to  the  fence  outside; 
and  inside  was  the  sound  of  fiddles  and  furious  danc- 
ing. Next  morning  old  Ben  told  another  raftsman 
that  he  had  seen  more  gray  horses  and  heard  more 
fiddling  that  night  than  he  had  seen  and  heard  since 
he  was  bom. 

"  They  was  a-fiddlin'  an'  a-dancin'  at  every  house 
I  passed  last  night,"  he  said,  "  an'  I'm  damned  if  I 
didn't  see  a  gray  hoss  hitched  outside  every  time  I 
heerd  the  fiddlin'.  I  reckon  they  was  ha'nts."  The 
old  fellow  laughed  good-naturedly  while  the  scholar 
was  telling  his  story.  He  had  been  caught  in  the 
eddy  and  had  been  swung  around  and  around,  passing 
the  same  house  and  the  same  horse  each  time. 

I  believe  I  have  remarked  that  those  bottles  were 
emptying  fast.  By  noon  they  were  quite  empty,  and 
two  hours  later,  as  we  rounded  a  curve,  the  scholar 
went  to  the  bow,  put  his  hands  to  his  mouth  and 
shouted: 

"Whis-kee!" 

70 


Down  the  Kentucky  on  a  Raft 

And  again: 

"  Whiss-kee-ee !  " 

A  girl  sprang  from  the  porch  of  a  cabin  far  down 
the  stream,  and  a  moment  later  a  canoe  was  pushed 
from  the  bushes,  and  the  girl,  standing  erect,  paddled 
it  up-stream  close  to  the  bank  and  shot  it  out  alongside 
the  raft. 

"  Howdye,  Mandy! " 

"  Howdye,  boys!  " 

Young  Ben  took  two  bottles  from  her,  gave  her 
some  pieces  of  silver,  and,  as  we  sped  on,  she  turned 
shoreward  again  and  stood  holding  the  bushes  and 
looking  after  us,  watching  young  Ben,  as  he  was 
watching  her;  for  she  was  black-eyed  and  pretty. 

The  sky  was  broken  with  hardly  a  single  cloud  that 
night.  The  moon  was  yellow  as  a  flame,  and  we  ran 
all  night  long.  I  lay  with  my  feet  to  the  fire  that  Ben 
had  built  on  some  stones  in  the  middle  of  the  raft, 
looking  up  at  the  trees  that  arched  over  us,  and  the 
3teep,  moonlit  cliffs,  and  the  moon  itself  riding  high 
and  full  and  so  brilliant  that  the  stars  seemed  to  have 
fallen  in  a  shower  all  around  the  horizon.  The  raft 
ran  as  noiselessly  as  a  lily-pad,  and  it  was  all  as  still 
and  wild  as  a  dream.  Once  or  twice  we  heard  the 
yelp  of  a  fox-hound  and  the  yell  of  a  hunter  out  in 
the  hills,  and  the  mountaineers  yelled  back  in  answer 

71 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

and  hied  the  dog  on.  Sometimes  young  Ben  and  the 
scholar,  and  even  solemn  Tim,  sang  some  weird  old 
ballad  that  one  can  hear  now  only  in  the  Southern 
hills;  and  twice,  to  my  delight  and  surprise,  the  scholar 
"  yodelled."  I  wondered  where  he  had  learned  how. 
He  did  not  know — he  had  always  known  how.  It  was 
perhaps  only  another  of  the  curious  Old  World  sur- 
vivals that  are  of  ceaseless  interest  to  a  speculative 
"  furriner,"  and  was  no  stranger  than  the  songs  he 
sang.  I  went  to  sleep  by  and  by,  and  woke  up  shiv- 
ering. It  was  yet  dark,  but  signs  of  day  were  evi- 
dent; and  in  the  dim  light  I  could  see  young  Ben  at 
the  stem-oar  on  watch,  and  the  huge  shape  of  big  Tom 
standing  like  a  statue  at  the  bow  and  peering  ahead. 
We  had  made  good  time  during  the  night — the  moun- 
taineers say  a  raft  makes  better  time  during  the  night 
— why,  I  could  not  see,  nor  could  they  explain,  and  at 
daybreak  we  were  sweeping  around  the  hills  of  the 
brush  country,  and  the  scholar  who  had  pointed  out 
things  of  interest  (he  was  a  school-teacher  at  home) 
began  to  show  his  parts  with  some  pride.  Every  rock 
and  cliff  and  turn  and  eddy  down  that  long  river  has 
some  picturesque  name  that  the  river-men  have  given 
it — names  known  only  to  them.  Two  rocks  that 
shoved  their  black  shoulders  up  on  either  side  of  the 
stream  have  been  called  Buck  and  Billy,  after  some 

^2 


Down  the  Kentucky  on  a  Raft 

old  fellow's  favorite  oxen,  for  more  than  half  a  cen- 
tury. Here  was  an  eagle's  nest.  A  bear  had  been 
seen  not  long  ago,  looking  from  a  black  hole  in  the 
face  of  a  cliff.  How  he  got  there  no  one  could  un- 
derstand. The  scholar  told  some  strong  stories — ^now 
that  we  were  in  a  region  of  historical  interest — where 
Boone  planted  his  first  fort  and  where  Boonesborough 
once  stood,  but  he  always  prefaced  his  tale  with  the 
overwhelming  authority  that — 

"Hist'ry  says!" 

He  declared  that  history  said  that  a  bull,  seeing 
some  cows  across  the  river,  had  jumped  from  the  point 
of  a  high  cliff  straight  down  into  the  river;  had 
swum  across  and  fallen  dead  as  he  was  climbing  the 
bank. 

"  He  busted  his  heart,"  said  the  scholar. 

Oddly  enough,  solemn  Tim,  who  had  never  cracked 
a  smile,  was  the  first  to  rebel. 

"  You  see  that  cliff  yander? "  said  the  scholar. 
"Well,  hist'ry  says  that  Dan'l  Boone  druv  three 
Injuns  once  straight  over  that  cliff  down  into  the 
river." 

I  could  see  that  Tim  was  loath  to  cast  discredit  on 
the  facts  of  history.  K  the  scholar  had  said  one  or 
even  two  Indians,  I  don't  think  Tim  would  have  called 
a  halt;  but  for  Daniel,  with  only  one  load  in  his  gun 

n 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

—and  it  not  a  Winchester — to  drive  three — ^it  was  too 
much.  And  yet  Tim  never  smiled,  and  it  was  the 
first  time  I  heard  him  voluntarily  open  his  lips. 

"  Well,  hist'ry  mought  'a'  said  that,"  he  said,  "  but 
I  reckon  Dan'l  was  in  the  lead !  "  The  yell  that  went 
up  routed  the  scholar  and  stilled  him.  History  said 
no  farther  down  that  stream,  even  when  we  were  pass- 
ing between  the  majestic  cliffs  that  in  one  place  are 
spanned  by  the  third  highest  bridge  in  the  world. 
There  a  ferry  was  crossing  the  river,  and  old  Ben  grew 
reminiscential.  He  had  been  a  ferryman  back  in  the 
mountains. 

"  Thar  was  a  slosh  of  ice  runnin'  in  the  river,"  he 
said,  "  an'  a  feller  come  a-lopin'  down  the  road  one 
day,  an'  hollered  an'  axed  me  to  take  him  across.  I 
knowed  from  his  voice  that  he  was  a-drinkin',  and  I 
hollered  back  an'  axed  him  if  he  was  drunk. 

"'Yes,  I'm  drunk!' 

"  '  How  drunk? '  I  says. 

"  '  Drunk  as  hell! '  he  says,  '  but  I  can  ride  that 
boat.' 

"  Well,  there  was  a  awful  slosh  o'  ice  a-runnin',  but 
I  let  him  on,  an'  we  hadn't  got  more'n  ten  feet  from 
the  bank  when  that  feller  fell  off  in  that  slosh  o'  ice. 
Well,  I  ketched  him  by  one  foot,  and  I  drug  him  an' 
I  drug  him  an'  I  drug  his  face  about  twenty  feet  in 

74 


Down  the  Kentucky  on  a  Raft 

the  mud,  an'  do  you  know  that  damn  fool  come  might' 
nigh  a-drownin'  before  I  could  change  eends !  " 

Thence  on,  the  trip  was  monotonous  except  for  the 
Kentuckian  who  loves  every  blade  of  grass  in  his  land 
— for  we  struck  locks  and  dams  and  smooth  and  slower 
water,  and  the  hills  were  low  but  high  enough  to  shut 
off  the  blue-grass  fields.  But  we  knew  they  were 
there — slope  and  woodland,  bursting  into  green — and 
the  trip  from  highland  to  lowland,  barren  hillside  to 
rich  pasture -land — from  rhododendron  to  blue-grass 
— was  done. 

At  dusk  that  day  we  ran  slowly  into  the  little  Ken- 
tucky capital,  past  distilleries  and  brick  factories  with 
tall  smoking  stacks  and  under  the  big  bridge  and, 
wonder  of  wonders  to  Ben,  past  a  little  stem-wheel 
steamboat  wheezing  up-stream.  We  climbed  the 
bank  into  the  town,  where  the  boy  Ben  and  solemn 
Tim  were  for  walking  single  file  in  the  middle  of  the 
streets  until  called  by  the  scholar  to  the  sidewalk. 
The  boy's  eyes  grew  big  with  wonder  when  he  saw 
streets  and  houses  of  stone,  and  heard  the  whistles  of 
factories  and  saw  what  was  to  him  a  crush  of  people 
in  the  sleepy  little  town.  I  parted  from  them  that 
night,  but  next  morning  I  saw  big  Tom  passing  the 
station  on  foot.  He  said  his  companions  had  taken 
his  things  and  gone  on  by  train,  and  that  he  was 

75 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

going  to  walk  back.  I  wondered,  and  while  I  asked 
no  questions,  I  should  like  to  wager  that  I  guessed 
the  truth.  Tom  had  spent  every  cent  of  his  money 
for  the  girl  in  crimson  homespun  who  was  waiting  for 
him  away  back  in  the  hills,  and  if  I  read  her  face 
aright  I  could  have  told  him  that  she  would  have 
given  every  trinket  he  had  sent  her  rather  than  wait 
a  day  longer  for  the  sight  of  his  face.  We  shook 
hands,  and  I  watched  him  pass  out  of  sight  with  his 
face  set  homeward  across  and  beyond  the  blue-grass, 
through  the  brush  country  and  the  Indian  Old  Fields, 
tack  to  his  hills  of  laurel  and  rhododendron. 


After  Br'er  Rabbit  in  the  Blue-grass 


After  Br'er  Rabbit  in  the  Blue-grass 

FOE.  little  more  than  a  month  Jack  Frost  has 
been  busy — that  arch-imp  of  Satan  who  has 
got  himself  enshrined  in  the  hearts  of  little 
children.  After  the  clear  sunset  of  some  late  October 
day,  when  the  clouds  have  hung  low  and  kept  the  air 
chill,  he  has  a  good  night  for  his  evil  work.  By  dawn 
the  little  magician  has  spun  a  robe  of  pure  white,  and 
drawn  it  close  to  the  breast  of  the  earth.  The  first 
light  turns  it  silver,  and  shows  the  flowers  and  jewels 
with  which  wily  Jack  has  decked  it,  so  that  it  may 
be  mistaken  for  a  wedding-gown,  perhaps,  instead  of 
a  winding-sheet.  The  sun,  knowing  better,  lifts,  lets 
loose  his  tiny  warriors,  and,  from  pure  love  of  beauty, 
with  one  stroke  smites  it  gold.  Then  begins  a  battle 
which  ends  soon  in  crocodile  tears  of  reconciliation 
from  dauntless  little  Jack,  with  the  blades  of  grass 
and  the  leaves  in  their  scarlet  finery  sparkling  with 
the  joy  of  another  day's  deliverance,  and  the  fields 
grown  gray  and  aged  in  a  single  night.  On  just  such 
a  morning,  and  before  the  fight  is  quite  done,  saddle^ 

79 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

horses  are  stepping  from  big  white  bams  in  certain 
counties  of  the  Blue-grass,  and,  sniffing  the  cool  air, 
are  being  led  to  old-fashioned  stiles,  from  which  a  lit- 
tle later  they  bear  master  or  mistress  out  to  the  turn- 
pike and  past  flashing  fields  to  the  little  county-seat 
several  miles  away.  There  in  the  court-house  square 
they  gather,  the  gentlefolk  of  country  and  town,  and 
from  that  point  they  start  into  the  country  the  other 
way.  It  is  a  hunting-meet.  Br'er  Rabbit  is  the 
quarry,  and  they  are  going  for  him  on  horseback  with- 
out dog,  stick,  snare,  or  gun — a  unique  sport,  and,  so 
far  as  I  know,  confined  wholly  to  the  Blue-grass. 
There  is  less  rusticity  than  cosmopolitanism  in  that 
happy  land.  The  townspeople  have  farms,  and  the 
farmers  own  stores;  intercourse  between  town  and 
country  is  unrestrained ;  and  as  for  social  position,  that 
is  a  question  one  rarely  hears  discussed :  one  either  has 
it  unquestioned,  or  one  has  it  not  at  all.  So  out  they 
go,  the  hunters  on  horseback,  and  the  chaperons  and 
spectators  in  buggies,  phaetons,  and  rockaways, 
through  a  morning  that  is  cloudless  and  brilliant,  past 
fields  that  are  sober  with  autumn,  and  woods  that  are 
dingy  with  oaks  and  streaked  with  the  fire  of  sumac 
and  maple.  !New  hemp  lies  in  shining  swaths  on  each 
side,  while  bales  of  last  year's  crop  are  going  to  mar- 
ket along  the  white  turnpike.     Already  the  farmers 

80 


After  Brer  Rabbit 

are  turning  over  the  soil  for  the  autumn  sowing  of 
wheat.  Corn-shucking  is  just  over,  and  ragged 
darkies  are  straggling  from  the  fields  back  to  town. 
Through  such  a  scene  move  horse  and  vehicle,  the  rid- 
ers shouting,  laughing,  running  races,  and  a  quartet, 
perhaps,  in  a  rockaway  singing  some  old-fashioned 
song  full  of  tune  and  sentiment.  Six  miles  out,  they 
turn  in  at  a  gate,  where  a  big  square  brick  house  with 
a  Grecian  portico  stands  far  back  in  a  wooded  yard, 
with  a  fish-pond  on  one  side  and  a  great  smooth  lawn 
on  the  other.  Other  hunters  are  waiting  there,  and 
the  start  is  made  through  a  Blue-grass  woodland, 
greening  with  a  second  spring,  and  into  a  sweep  of 
stubble  and  ragweed.  There  are  two  captains  of  the 
hunt.  One  is  something  of  a  wag,  and  has  the  voice 
of  a  trumpet. 

"  Form  a  line,  and  form  a  good  un!  "  he  yells,  and 
the  line  stretches  out  with  a  space  of  ten  or  fifteen  feet 
between  each  horse  and  his  neighbor  on  each  side. 
The  men  are  dressed  as  they  please,  the  ladies  as  they 
please.  English  blood  gets  expression,  as  usual,  in  in- 
dependence absolute.  There  is  a  sturdy  disregard  of 
all  considerations  of  form.  Some  men  wear  leggings, 
some  high  boots;  a  few  have  brown  shooting-coats. 
Most  of  them  ride  with  the  heel  low  and  the  toes 
turned,   according  to  temperament.     The   Southern 

8i 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

woman's  long  riding-skirt  has  happily  been  laid  aside. 
These  young  Dianas  wear  the  usual  habit;  only  the 
hat  is  a  derby,  a  cap,  sometimes  a  beaver  with  a  white 
veil,  or  a  tam-o'-shanter  that  has  slipped  down  behind 
and  left  a  frank  bare  head  of  shining  hair.  They  hold 
the  reins  in  either  hand,  and  not  a  crop  is  to  be  seen. 
There  are  plenty  of  riding-whips,  however,  and  some- 
times one  runs  up  the  back  of  some  girl's  right  arm, 
for  that  is  the  old-fashioned  position  for  the  whip  when 
riding  in  form.  On  a  trip  like  this,  however,  every- 
body rides  to  please  his  fancy,  and  rides  anywhere  but 
off  his  horse.  The  men  are  sturdy  country  youths, 
who  in  a  few  years  will  make  good  types  of  the  beef- 
eating  young  Enghsh  squire — sunburned  fellows  with 
big  frames,  open  faces,  fearless  eyes,  and  a  manner 
that  is  easy,  cordial,  kindly,  independent.  The  girls 
are  midway  between  the  types  of  brunette  and  blonde, 
with  a  leaning  toward  the  latter  type.  The  extreme 
brunette  is  as  rare  as  is  the  unlovely  blonde,  whom 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  differentiates  from  her  daz- 
zling sister  with  locks  that  have  caught  the  light  of  the 
sun.  Radiant  with  freshness  these  girls  are,  and  with 
good  health  and  strength ;  round  of  figure,  clear  of  eye 
and  skin,  spirited,  soft  of  voice,  and  slow  of  speech. 

There  is  one  man  on  a  sorrel  mule.     He  is  the  host 
back  at  the  big  farm-house,  and  he  has  given  up  every 

82 


After  Br'er  Rabbit 

horse  he  has  to  guests.  One  of  the  girls  has  a  broad 
white  girth  running  all  the  way  around  both  horse  and 
saddle.  Her  habit  is  the  most  stylish  in  the  field;  she 
has  lived  a  year  in  Washington,  perhaps,  and  has  had 
a  finishing  touch  at  a  fashionable  school  in  New  York. 
Near  her  is  a  young  fellow  on  a  black  thoroughbred 
— a  graduate,  perhaps,  of  Yale  or  Princeton.  They 
rarely  put  on  airs,  couples  like  these,  when  they  come 
back  home,  but  drop  quietly  into  their  old  places  with 
friends  and  kindred.  From  respect  to  local  prejudice, 
which  has  a  hearty  contempt  for  anything  that  is  not 
carried  for  actual  use,  she  has  left  her  riding-crop  at 
home.  He  has  let  his  crinkled  black  hair  grow  rather 
long,  and  has  covered  it  with  a  black  slouch-hat.  Con- 
tact with  the  outer  world  has  made  a  difference,  how- 
ever, and  it  is  enough  to  create  a  strong  bond  of  sympa- 
thy between  these  two,  and  to  cause  trouble  between 
country-bred  PhylKs,  plump,  dark-eyed,  bare-headed, 
who  rides  a  pony  that  is  trained  to  the  hunt,  as  many  of 
the  horses  are,  and  young  farmer  Corydon,  who  is  near 
her  on  an  iron-gray.  Indeed,  mischief  is  brewing 
among  those  four.  At  a  brisk  walk  the  line  moves 
across  the  field,  the  captain  at  each  end  yelling  to  the 
men — only  the  men,  for  no  woman  is  ever  anywhere 
but  where  she  ought  to  be  in  a  Southern  hunting-field 
— to  keep  it  straight. 

83 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

"  Billy,"  shouts  the  captain  with  the  mighty  voice, 
"  I  fine  you  ten  dollars."  The  slouch-hat  and  the 
white  girth  are  lagging  behind.  It  is  a  lovers'  quar- 
rel, ajid  the  girl  looks  a  little  flushed,  while  Phyllis 
watches  smiling.  "  But  you  can  compromise  with 
me,"  adds  the  captain,  and  a  jolly  laugh  runs  down 
the  line.  Now  comes  a  "  rebel  yell."  Somewhere 
along  the  line,  a  horse  leaps  forward.  Other  horses 
jump  too;  everybody  yells,  and  everybody's  eye  is  on 
a  little  bunch  of  cotton  that  is  being  whisked  with 
astonishing  speed  through  the  brown  weeds.  There 
is  a  massing  of  horses  close  behind  it;  the  white  girth 
flashes  in  the  midst  of  the  melee,  and  the  slouch-hat 
is  just  behind.  The  bunch  of  cotton  turns  suddenly, 
and  doubles  back  between  the  horses'  feet.  There  is 
a  great  crash,  and  much  turning,  tvdsting,  and  sawing 
of  bits.  Then  the  crowd  dashes  the  other  way,  with 
Corydon  and  Phyllis  in  the  lead.     The  fun  has  begun. 


II 

Feom  snow  to  snow  in  the  Blue-grass,  Br'er  Rabbit 
has  two  inveterate  enemies — the  darky  and  the  school- 
boy —  and  his  lot  is  a  hard  one.  Even  in  the  late 
spring  and  early  summer,  when  "  ole  Mis'  "  Rabbit  is 
keeping  house,  either  one  of  her  foes  wil\  cast  a  de- 

84 


After  Brer  Rabbit 

structive  stone  at  her,  if  she  venture  into  open  lane  or 
pasture.  When  midsummer  comes  even,  her  tiny, 
long-eared  brood  is  in  danger.  Not  one  of  the  little 
fellows  is  much  larger  than  your  doubled  fist  when 
the  weeds  get  thick  and  high,  and  the  elderberries  are 
ripe,  and  the  blackberries  almost  gone,  but  he  is  a  ten- 
der morsel,  and,  with  the  darky,  ranks  in  gastronomical 
favor  close  after  the  'possum  and  the  coon.  You  see 
him  then  hopping  about  the  edge  of  hemp  and  har- 
vest fields,  or  crossing  the  country  lanes,  and  he  is  very 
pretty,  and  so  innocent  and  unwary  that  few  have  the 
heart  to  slay  him,  except  his  two  ruthless  foes.  When 
the  fields  of  grain  are  cut  at  harvest-time,  both  are  on 
a  close  lookout  for  him.  For,  as  the  grain  is  mown 
about  him,  he  is  penned  at  last  in  a  little  square  of 
uncut  cover,  and  must  make  a  dash  for  liberty 
through  stones,  sticks,  dogs,  and  yelling  darkies.  Af- 
ter frost  comes,  the  school-boy  has  both  eyes  open  for 
him,  and  a  stone  ready,  on  his  way  to-  and  from  his 
books,  and  he  goes  after  him  at  noon  recess  and  on 
Saturdays.  The  darky  travels  with  a  "  rabbit-stick  " 
three  feet  long  in  hand  and  a  cur  at  his  heels.  Some- 
times he  will  get  his  young  master's  bird-dog  out,  and 
give  Br'er  Eabbit  a  chase,  in  spite  of  the  swearing  that 
surely  awaits  him,  and  the  licking  that  may.  Then 
he  makes  a  "  dead  fall "  for  him — a  broad  board  sup* 

85 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

porting  a  heavy  rock,  and  supported  by  triggers  that 
are  set  like  the  lines  of  the  figure  4;  or  he  will  bend 
the  top  of  a  young  sapling  to  the  ground,  and  make 
a  snare  of  a  string,  and  some  morning  there  is  innocent 
Br'er  Rabbit  strung  up  like  a  murderer.  Sometimes 
he  will  chase  him  into  a  rock  fence,  and  then  what  is 
a  square  yard  or  so  of  masonry  to  one  fat  rabbit? 
Sometimes  Br'er  Eabbit  will  take  a  favorite  refuge, 
a  hollow  tree;  for,  while  he  cannot  climb  a  tree  in  the 
usual  way,  he  can  arch  his  back  and  rise  spryly  enough 
on  the  inside.  Then  does  the  ingenious  darky  con- 
trive a  simple  instrument  of  torture — a  long,  limber 
stick  with  a  prong,  or  a  split  end.  This  he  twists  into 
Br'er  Rabbit's  fur  until  he  can  gather  up  with  it  one 
fold  of  his  slack  hide,  and  down  comes  the  game.  This 
hurts,  and  with  this  provocation  only  will  the  rabbit 
snap  at  the  hunter's  hand.  If  this  device  fails  the 
hunter,  he  will  try  smoking  him  out;  and  if  that  fails, 
there  is  left  the  ax.  Always,  too,  is  the  superstitious 
darky  keen  for  the  rabbit  that  is  caught  in  a  grave- 
yard, by  a  slow  hound,  at  midnight,  and  in  the  dark 
of  the  moon.  The  left  hind  foot  of  that  rabbit  is  a 
thing  to  conjure  with. 

On  Saturdays,  both  his  foes  are  after  him  with  dog 
and  gun.  If  they  have  no  dog  they  track  him  in  the 
snow,  or  they  "  look  for  him  settin'  "  in  thick  bunches 

86 


After  Br'er  Rabbit 

of  winter  blue-grass,  or  under  briers  and  cut  tbom- 
bushes  that  have  been  piled  in  little  gullies;  and,  alas! 
tbey  "  shoot  him  settin'  "  until  the  darky  has  learned 
fair  play  from  association,  or  the  boy  has  had  it 
thumped  into  him  at  school.  Then  will  the  latter  give 
Br'er  Rabbit  a  chance  for  his  life  by  stirring  him  up 
with  his  brass-toed  boot  and  taking  a  crack  at  him  as 
he  lopes  away.  It  will  be  a  long  time  before  this  boy 
will  get  old  enough,  or  merciful  enough  to  resist  the 
impulse  to  get  out  of  his  buggy  or  off  his  horse,  no 
matter  where  he  is  going  or  in  how  great  a  hurry,  and 
shy  a  stone  when  a  cottontail  crosses  his  path.  In- 
deed, a  story  comes  down  that  a  field  of  slaves  threw 
aside  their  hoes  once  and  dashed  pell-mell  after  a  pass- 
ing rabbit.  An  indignant  observer  reported  the  fact 
to  their  master,  and  this  was  the  satisfaction  he  got. 

"  Run  him,  did  they  ?  "  said  the  master,  cheerfully. 
"  Well,  I'd  have  whipped  the  last  one  of  them,  if 
they  hadn't." 

And  yet  it  is  not  until  late  in  October  that  Br'er 
Rabbit  need  go  into  the  jimson-weeds  and  seriously 
"  wuck  he  haid  "  (work  his  head)  over  his  personal 
safety;  but  it  is  very  necessary  then,  and  on  Thanks- 
giving Day  it  behooves  him  to  say  his  prayers  in  the 
thickest  cover  he  can  find.  Every  man's  hand  is 
against  him  that  day.     All  the  big  hunting-parties  are 

87 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

out,  and  the  Iroquois  Club  of  Lexington  goes  for  him 
with  horse  and  greyhound.  And  that  is  wild  sport. 
Indeed,  put  a  daredevil  Kentuckian  on  a  horse  or  be- 
hind him,  and  in  a  proper  mood,  and  there  is  always 
wild  sport — for  the  onlooker  as  well.  It  is  hard  to 
fathom  the  spirit  of  recklessness  that  most  sharply  dif- 
ferentiates the  Southern  hunter  from  his  Northern 
brother,  and  that  runs  him  amuck  when  he  comes  into 
contact  with  a  horse,  whether  riding,  driving,  or  bet- 
ting on  him.  If  a  thing  has  to  be  done  in  a  hunting- 
field,  or  can  be  done,  there  is  little  difference  between 
the  two.  Only  the  thing  must,  with  the  Northerner, 
be  a  matter  of  skill  and  judgment,  and  he  likes  to 
know  his  horse.  To  him,  or  to  an  Englishman,  the 
Southern  hunter's  performances  on  a  green  horse  look 
little  short  of  criminal.  In  certain  counties  of  Vir- 
ginia, where  hunters  follow  the  hounds  after  the  Eng- 
lish fashion,  the  main  point  seems  to  be  for  each  man 
to  "  hang  up  "  the  man  behind  him,  and  desperate 
risks  are  run.  "  I  have  stopped  that  boyish  foolish- 
ness, though,"  said  an  aged  hunter  under  thirty;  "  I 
give  my  horse  a  chance."  In  other  words,  he  had 
stopped  exacting  of  him  the  impossible.  In  Georgia, 
they  follow  hounds  at  a  fast  gallop  through  wooded 
bogs  and  swamps  at  night,  and  I  have  seen  a  horse 
go  down  twice  within  a  distance  of  thirty  yards,  and 

88 


After  Br'er  Rabbit 

the  rider  never  leave  his  back.  The  same  is  true  of 
Kentucky,  and  I  suppose  of  other  Southern  States.  I 
have  known  one  of  my  friends  in  the  Blue-grass  to 
amuse  himself  by  getting  into  his  buggy  an  unsus- 
pecting friend,  who  was  as  sedate  then  as  he  is  now 
(and  he  is  a  judge  now),  and  driving  him  at  full  speed 
through  an  open  gate,  then  whizzing  through  the 
woods  and  seeing  how  near  he  could  graze  the  trunks 
of  trees  in  his  course,  and  how  sharply  he  could  turn, 
and  ending  up  the  circuit  by  dashing,  still  at  full 
speed,  into  a  creek,  his  companion  still  sedate  and 
fearless,  but  swearing  helplessly.  Being  bantered  by 
an  equally  reckless  friend  one  dark  midnight  while 
going  home,  this  same  man  threw  both  reins  out  on 
his  horse's  back,  and  gave  the  high-strung  beast  a 
smart  cut  with  his  whip.  He  ran  four  miles,  kept  the 
pike  by  some  mercy  of  Providence,  and  stopped  ex- 
hausted at  his  master's  gate. 

A  Northern  visitor  was  irritated  by  the  apparently 
reckless  driving  of  his  host,  who  is  a  famous  horseman 
in  the  Blue-grass. 

"  You  lunatic,"  he  said,  "  you'd  better  drive  over 
those  stone  piles!  "  meaning  a  heap  of  unbroken  rocks 
that  lay  on  one  side  of  the  turnpike. 

"  I  will,"  was  the  grave  answer,  and  he  did. 

This  is  the  Kentuckian  in  a  buggy. 
89 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

Imagine  him  on  horseback,  with  no  ladies  present 
to  check  the  spirit  or  the  spirits  of  the  occasion,  and 
we  can  beHeve  that  the  Thanksgiving  hunt  of  the  Iro- 
quois Club  is  perhaps  a  little  more  serious  business 
than  playing  polo,  or  riding  after  anise-seed.  And 
yet  there  is  hardly  a  member  of  this  club  who  could 
sit  in  his  saddle  over  the  course  at  Meadowbrook  or 
Chevy  Chase,  for  the  reason  that  he  has  never  prac- 
tised jumping  a  horse  in  his  stride,  and  because  when 
he  goes  fast  he  takes  the  jockey  seat,  which  is  not,  I 
believe,  a  good  seat  for  a  five-foot  fence;  at  the  same 
time,  there  is  hardly  a  country-bred  rider  in  the  Blue- 
grass,  man  or  woman,  who  would  not  try  it.  Still, 
accidents  are  rare,  and  it  is  yet  a  tenet  in  the  creed 
of  the  Southern  hunter  that  the  safer  plan  is  to  take 
no  care.  On  the  chase  with  greyhounds  the  dogs  run, 
of  course,  by  sight,  and  the  point  with  the  huntsman 
is  to  be  the  first  at  the  place  of  the  kill.  As  the  grey- 
hound tosses  the  rabbit  several  feet  in  the  air  and 
catches  it  when  it  falls,  the  place  is  seen  by  all,  and 
there  is  a  mad  rush  for  that  one  spot.  The  hunters 
crash  together,  and  often  knock  one  another  down.  I 
have  known  two  fallen  horses  and  their  riders  to  be 
cleared  in  a  leap  by  two  hunters  who  were  close  be- 
hind them.  ^  One  of  the  men  was  struck  by  a  hoof  fly- 
ing over  him. 

90 


After  Br  er  Rabbit 

"  I  saw  a  shoe  glisten,"  he  said,  "  and  then  it  was 
darkness  for  a  while." 

But  it  is  the  hunting  without  even  a  dog  that  is  in- 
teresting, because  it  is  unique  and  because  the  ladies 
share  the  fun.  The  sport  doubtless  originated  with 
school-boys.  They  could  not  take  dogs,  or  guns,  to 
school ;  they  had  leisure  at  "  big  recess,"  as  the  noon 
hour  was  called ;  they  had  horses,  and  the  rabbits  were 
just  over  the  school-yard  fence.  One  day  two  or 
three  of  them  chased  a  rabbit  down,  and  the  fun  was 
discovered.  These  same  boys,  perhaps,  kept  up  the 
hunt  after  their  school-days  were  over,  and  gave  the 
fever  to  others,  the  more  easily  as  foxes  began  to  get 
scarce.  Then  the  ladies  began  to  take  part,  and  the 
sport  is  what  it  is  to-day.  The  President  signs  a  great 
annual  death-warrant  for  Br'er  Rabbit  in  the  Blue- 
grass  when  he  fixes  a  day  for  Thanksgiving. 

ni 

Again  Br'er  Rabbit  twists,  and  Phyllis's  little  horse 
turns  after  him  like  a  polo  pony  after  a  ball.  The 
black  thoroughbred  makes  a  wide  sweep;  Corydon's 
iron-gray  cuts  in  behind,  and  the  whole  crowd  starts 
in  a  body  toward  the  road.  This  rabbit  is  an  old  hand 
at  this  business,  and  he  knows  where  safety  lies.     A 

91 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

moment  later  the  horses  come  to  their  haunches  at  the 
pike  fence.  Br'er  Rabbit  has  gone  into  a  culvert  un- 
der the  road,  and  already  a  small  boy  and  a  yellow 
dog  are  making  for  that  culvert  from  a  farm-house 
near.  Again  the  trumpet,  "  Form  a  line!  "  Again 
the  long  line  starts.  There  has  been  a  shifting  of  po- 
sitions. Corydon  is  next  the  white  girth  and  stylish 
habit  now,  and  he  looks  very  much  pleased.  The 
slouch-hat  of  the  college  man  and  Phyllis's  bare  head 
are  together,  and  the  thoroughbred's  master  is  talking 
earnestly.  Phyllis  looks  across  the  field  and  smiles. 
Silly  Corydon !  The  slouch-hat  is  confessing  his  trou- 
ble to  Phyllis  and  asking  advice.  Yes,  she  will  help,  as 
women  will,  out  of  pure  friendship,  pure  unselfish- 
ness; sometimes  they  have  other  reasons,  and  Phyllis 
had  two.  Another  yell,  another  rabbit.  Off  they  go, 
and  then,  midway,  still  another  cry  and  still  another 
rabbit.  The  hunters  part  in  twain,  the  black  thorough- 
bred leading  one  wing,  the  iron-gray  the  other.  Watch 
the  slouch-hat  now,  and  you  shall  see  how  the  thing  is 
done.  The  thoroughbred  is  learning  what  his  master 
is  after,  and  he  swerves  to  the  right;  others  are  com- 
ing in  from  that  direction ;  the  rabbit  must  turn  again ; 
others  that  way,  too.  Poor  Mollie  is  confused ;  which- 
ever way  her  big,  startled  eyes  turn,  that  way  she  sees 
a  huge  beast  and  a  yelling  demon  bearing  down  on 

92 


After  Brer  Rabbit 

her.  The  slouch-hat  swoops  near  her  first,  flings  him- 
self from  his  horse,  and,  in  spite  of  the  riders  pressing 
in  on  him,  is  after  her  on  foot.  Two  others  swing 
from  their  horses  on  the  other  side.  Mollie  makes 
several  helpless  hops,  and  the  three  scramble  for  her. 
The  riders  in  front  cry  for  those  behind  to  hold  their 
horses  back,  but  they  crowd  in,  and  it  is  a  miracle  that 
none  of  the  three  is  trampled  down.  The  rabbit  is 
hemmed  in  now;  there  is  no  way  of  escape,  and  in- 
stinctively she  shrinks  frightened  to  the  earth.  That 
is  the  crucial  instant;  down  goes  her  pursuer  on  top 
of  her  as  though  she  were  a  football,  and  the  quarry 
is  his.  One  blow  of  the  hand  behind  the  long  ears, 
or  one  jerk  by  the  hind  legs,  which  snaps  the  neck  as 
a  whip  cracks,  and  the  slouch-hat  holds  aloft  the  brush, 
a  little  puff  of  down,  and  turns  his  eye  about  the  field. 
The  white  girth  is  near,  and  as  he  starts  toward  her 
he  is  stopped  by  a  low  "  Ahem !  "  behind  him.  Cory- 
don  has  caught  the  first  rabbit,  and  already  on  the 
derby  hat  above  the  white  girth  is  pinned  the  brush. 
The  young  fellow  turns  again.  Phyllis,  demure  and 
unregarding,  is  there  with  her  eyes  on  the  horns  of 
her  saddle;  but  he  understands,  and  a  moment  later 
she  smiles  with  prettily  feigned  surprise,  and  the  white 
puff  moves  off  in  her  loosening  brown  hair.  The 
white  girth  is  betrayed  into  the  faintest  shadow  of 

93 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

vexation.  Corydon  heard  that  eloquent  little  clear- 
ing of  the  throat  with  a  darkling  face,  and,  indeed,  no 
one  of  the  four  looks  very  happy,  except  Phyllis. 

"Form  a  line!  " 

Again  the  rabbits  jump — one,  two,  three — and  the 
horses  dash  and  crash  together,  and  the  men  swing  to 
the  ground,  and  are  pushed  and  trampled  in  a  mad 
clutch  for  Mollie's  long  ears;  for  it  is  a  contest  be- 
tween them  as  to  who  shall  catch  the  most  game.  The 
iron-gray  goes  like  a  demon,  and  when  Corydon  drops, 
the  horse  is  trained  to  stop  and  to  stand  still.  This 
gives  Corydon  an  advantage  which  balances  the  su- 
perior quickness  of  the  thoroughbred  and  the  agility 
of  his  rider.  The  hunting-party  is  broken  up  now 
into  groups  of  three  and  four,  each  group  after  a  rab- 
bit, and,  for  the  time,  the  disgusted  captains  give  up 
all  hope  of  discipline.  A  horse  has  gone  down  in  a 
gully.  Two  excited  girls  have  jumped  to  the  ground 
for  a  rabbit.  The  big  mule  threshes  the  weeds  like 
a  tornado.  Crossing  the  field  at  a  heavy  gallop,  he 
stops  suddenly  at  a  ditch,  the  girth  of  the  old  saddle 
breaks,  and  the  host  of  the  day  goes  on  over  the  long 
ears.  When  he  rises  from  the  weeds,  there  is  a  shriek 
of  laughter  over  the  field,  and  then  a  mule-race,  for, 
with  a  bray  of  freedom,  the  sorrel  makes  for  home. 
Not  a  rabbit  is  jumped  on  the  next  circuit;  that  field 

94 


After  Br'er  Rabbit 

is  hunted  out.  No  matter;  there  is  another  just 
across  the  meadow,  and  they  make  for  it.  More  than 
a  dozen  rabbits  dangle  head  downward  behind  the  sad- 
dles of  the  men.  Corydon  has  caught  seven,  and  the 
slouch-hat  five.  The  palm  lies  between  them  plainly, 
as  does  a  bigger  motive  than  the  game.  It  is  a  mat- 
ter of  gallantry — conferring  the  brush  in  the  field; 
indeed,  secrets  are  hidden  rather  than  betrayed  in  that 
way :  so  Corydon  is  free  to  honor  the  white  girth,  and 
the  slouch-hat  can  honor  Phyllis  without  suspicion. 
The  stylish  habit  shows  four  puffs  of  down;  Phyllis 
wears  five — every  trophy  that  the  slouch-hat  has  won. 
That  is  the  way  Phyllis  is  helping  a  friend,  getting 
even  with  an  enemy,  and  putting  down  a  rebellion  in 
her  own  camp.  Even  in  the  meadow  a  rabbit  starts 
up,  and  there  is  a  quick  sprint  in  the  open ;  but  Br'er 
Eabbit,  another  old  hand  at  the  hunt,  slips  through 
the  tall  palings  of  a  garden  fence.  In  the  other  field 
the  fun  is  more  furious  than  ever,  for  the  rabbits  are 
thicker  and  the  rivalry  is  very  close.  Corydon  is  get- 
ting excited;   once,  he  nearly  overrides  his  rival. 

The  field  has  gone  mad.  The  girl  with  the  white 
girth  is  getting  flushed  with  something  more  than  ex- 
citement, and  even  Phyllis,  demure  as  she  still  looks, 
is  stirred  a  little.  The  pony's  mistress  is  ahead  by  two 
brushes,  and  the  white  girth  is  a  little  vexed.     She 

95 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

declares  she  is  going  to  catch  a  rabbit  herself.  The 
slouch-hat  hears,  and  watches  her,  thereafter,  uneasily. 
And  she  does  spring  lightly,  recklessly,  to  the  ground 
just  as  the  iron-gray  and  the  thoroughbred  crash  in 
toward  her,  and,  right  between  the  horses'  hoofs,  Br'er 
Rabbit  is  caught  in  her  little  black  riding-gloves.  In- 
deed, the  front  feet  of  a  horse  strike  her  riding-skirt, 
mashing  it  into  the  soft  earth,  and  miss  crushing  her 
by  a  foot.  The  slouch-hat  is  on  the  ground  beside  her. 
"  You  mustn't  do  that  again  I  "  he  says  with  sharp 
authority. 

"  Mr.  ,"  she  says,  quietly,  but  haughtily,  to 

C<5rydon,  who  is  on  the  ground,  too,  "  will  you  please 
help  me  on  my  horse?  " 

The  slouch-hat  looks  as  red  as  a  flame,  but  Phyllis 
whispers  comfort.  "  That's  all  right,"  she  says,  wise- 
ly; and  it  is  all  right.  Under  the  slouch-hat,  the  white 
face  meant  fear,  anxiety,  distress.  The  authority  of 
the  voice  thrilled  the  girl,  and  in  the  depths  of  her 
heart  she  was  pleased,  and  Phyllis  knew. 

The  sun  is  dropping  fast,  but  they  will  try  one  more 
field,  which  lies  beyond  a  broad  pasture  of  blue-grass. 
Now  comes  the  chase  of  the  day.  Something  big  and 
gray  leaps  from  a  bunch  of  grass  and  bounds  away. 
It  is  the  father  of  rabbits,  and  there  is  a  race  indeed 
— an  open  field,  a  straight  course,  and  no  favor.     The 

96 


After  Brer  Rabbit 

devil  take  the  hindmost!  Listen  to  the  music  of  the 
springy  turf,  and  watch  that  thoroughbred  whose 
master  has  stayed  behind  to  put  up  the  fence!  He 
hasn't  had  half  a  chance  before.  He  feels  the  grip  of 
knees  as  his  master  rises  to  the  racing-seat,  and  know- 
ing what  that  means,  he  lengthens.  No  great  effort 
is  apparent;  he  simply  stretches  himself  close  to  the 
earth  and  skims  it  as  a  swallow  skims  a  pond.  Within 
two  hundred  yards  he  is  side  by  side  with  Corydon, 
who  is  leading,  and  Corydon,  being  no  fool,  pulls  in 
and  lets  him  go  on.  Br'er  Rabbit  is  going  up  one  side 
of  a  long,  shallow  ravine.  There  is  a  grove  of  locusts 
at  the  upper  end.  The  hunters  behind  see  the  slouch- 
hat  cut  around  the  crest  of  the  hill,  and,  as  luck  would 
have  it,  Br'er  Rabbit  doubles,  and  comes  back  on  the 
other  side  of  the  ravine.  The  thoroughbred  has 
closed  up  the  gap  that  the  turn  made,  and  is  not  fifty 
yards  behind.  Br'er  Rabbit  is  making  either  for  a 
rain-washed  gully  just  opposite,  or  for  a  brier-patch 
farther  down.  So  they  wait.  The  cottontail  clears 
the  gully  like  a  ball  of  thistledown,  and  Phyllis  hears 
a  little  gasp  behind  her  as  the  thoroughbred,  too,  rises 
and  cleaves  the  air.  Horse  and  rabbit  dash  into  the 
weedy  cover,  and  the  slouch-hat  drops  out  of  sight  as 
three  hunters  ride  yelling  into  it  from  the  other  side. 
There  is  a  scramble  in  the  bushes,  and  the  slouch-hat 

97 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

emerges  with  the  rabbit  in  his  hand.  As  he  rides 
slowly  toward  the  waiting  party,  he  looks  at  Phyllis 
as  though  to  receive  further  orders.  He  gets  them. 
Wily  Phyllis  shakes  her  head  as  though  to  say: 

"  Not  me  this  time;  her" 

And  with  a  courtly  inclination  of  the  slouch-hat, 
the  big  brush  goes  to  the  white  girth,  in  lieu  of  an 
olive-branch,  for  peace. 

The  shadows  are  stretching  fast;  they  will  not  try 
the  other  field.  Back  they  start  through  the  radiant 
air  homeward,  laughing,  talking,  bantering,  living 
over  the  incidents  of  the  day,  the  men  with  one  leg 
swung  over  the  pommel  of  their  saddles  for  rest;  the 
girls  with  habits  disordered  and  torn,  hair  down,  and 
a  little  tired,  but  all  flushed,  clear-eyed,  and  happy. 
The  leaves,  russet,  gold,  and  crimson,  are  dropping 
to  the  green  earth;  the  sunlight  is  as  yellow  as  the 
wings  of  a  butterfly ;  and  on  the  horizon  is  a  faint  haze 
that  foreshadows  the  coming  Indian  summer.  If  it 
be  Thanksgiving,  a  big  dinner  will  be  waiting  for  them 
at  the  stately  old  farm-house,  or  if  a  little  later  in  the 
year,  a  hot  supper  instead.  If  the  hunt  is  very  in- 
formal, and  there  be  neither,  which  rarely  happens, 
everybody  asks  everybody  else  to  go  home  with  him, 
and  everybody  means  it,  and  accepts  if  possible.  This 
time  it  is^  warm  enough  for  a  great  spread  out  in  the 

98 


After  Br'er  Rabbit 

yard  on  the  lawn  and  under  the  big  oaks.  What  a 
feast  that  is — chicken,  turkey,  cold  ham,  pickles, 
croquettes,  creams,  jellies,  "beaten"  biscuit!  And 
what  happy  laughter,  and  thoughtful  courtesy,  and 
mellow  kindness! 

Inside,  most  likely,  it  is  cool  enough  for  a  fire  in 
the  big  fireplace  with  the  shining  old  brass  andirons; 
and  what  quiet,  solid,  old-fashioned  English  comfort 
that  light  brings  out!  Two  darky  fiddlers  are  wait- 
ing on  the  back  porch — waiting  for  a  dram  from 
"  young  cap'n,"  as  "  young  marster  "  is  now  called. 
They  do  not  wait  long.  By  the  time  darkness  settles, 
the  fiddles  are  talking  old  tunes,  and  the  nimble  feet 
are  busy.  Like  draws  to  like  now,  and  the  window- 
seats  and  the  tall  columns  of  the  porch  hear  again  what 
they  have  been  listening  to  for  so  long.  Corydon  has 
drawn  near.  Does  Phylhs  sulk  or  look  cold?  Not 
Phyllis.  You  would  not  know  that  Corydon  had  ever 
left  her  side.  It  has  beeii  a  day  of  sweet  mischief  to 
Phyllis. 

At  midnight  they  ride  forth  in  pairs  into  the  crisp, 
brilliant  air  and  under  the  kindly  moon.  The  white 
girth  turns  toward  town  with  the  thoroughbred  at  her 
side,  and  Corydon  and  Phyllis  take  the  other  way. 
They  live  on  adjoining  farms,  these  two.  Phyllis  has 
not  forgotten;  oh,  no!     There  is  mild  torture  await- 

99 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

ing  Corydon  long  after  he  shall  have  forgotten  the 
day,  and  he  deserves  it.  Silly  Corydon!  to  quarrel 
over  nothing,  and  to  think  that  he  could  make  her 
jealous  over  that — the  white  girth  is  never  phrased, 
for  Phyllis  stops  there.  It  is  not  the  first  time  these 
two  girls  have  crossed  foils.  But  there  is  peace  now, 
and  the  little  comedy  of  the  day,  seen  by  nearly  every 
woman  and  by  hardly  a  man,  comes  that  night  to  a 
happy  end. 


too 


Through  the  Bad  Bend 


Through  the  Bad  Bend 

A  WILDLY  beautiful  cleft  through  the  Cum- 
berland Range  opens  into  the  head  of  Powell's 
Valley,  in  Virginia,  and  forms  the  Gap. 
From  this  point  a  party  of  us  were  going  bass-fishing 
on  a  fork  of  the  Cumberland  River  over  in  the  Ken- 
tucky mountains.  It  was  Sunday,  and  several 
Kentucky  mountaineers  had  crossed  over  that  day  to 
take  their  first  ride  on  the  cars,  and  to  see  "  the  city  " 
— as  the  Gap  has  been  prophetically  called  ever  since 
it  had  a  cross-roads  store,  one  little  hotel,  two  farm- 
houses, and  a  blacksmith's  shop.  From  them  we 
learned  that  we  could  ride  down  Powell's  Valley  and 
get  to  the  fork  of  the  Cumberland  by  simply  climb- 
ing over  the  mountain.  As  the  mountaineers  were 
going  back  home  the  same  day,  Breck  and  I  boarded 
the  train  with  them,  intending  to  fish  down  the  fork 
of  the  river  to  the  point  where  the  rest  of  the  party 
would  strike  the  same  stream,  two  days  later. 

At  the  second  station  down  the  road  a  crowd  of 
Virginia  mountaineers  got  on  board.     Most  of  them 

103 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

had  been  drinking,  and  the  festivities  soon  began.  One 
drunken  young  giant  pulled  his  revolver,  swung  it 
back  over  his  shoulder — the  muzzle  almost  grazing  a 
woman's  face  behind  him — and  swung  it  up  again  to 
send  a  bullet  crashing  through  the  top  of  the  car. 
The  hammer  was  at  the  turning-point  when  a  com- 
panion caught  his  v;rist.  At  the  same  time,  the  fel- 
low's sister  sprang  across  the  aisle,  and,  wrenching  the 
weapon  from  his  grasp,  hid  it  in  her  dress.  Simul- 
taneously his  partner  at  the  other  end  of  the  car  was 
drawing  a  .45  Colt's  half  as  long  as  his  arm.  A 
quick  panic  ran  through  the  car,  and  in  a  moment 
there  was  no  one  in  it  with  us  but  the  mountaineers, 
the.  conductor,  one  brakeman,  and  one  other  man,  who 
sat  still  in  his  seat,  with  one  hand  under  his  coat.  The 
prospect  was  neither  pleasant  nor  peaceful,  and  we 
rose  to  our  feet  and  waited.  The  disarmed  giant  was 
raging  through  the  aisle  searching  and  calling,  with 
mighty  oaths,  for  his  pistol.  The  other  had  backed 
into  a  corner  of  the  car,  waving  his  revolver,  turning 
his  head  from  side  to  side  to  avoid  a  surprise  in  the 
rear,  white  with  rage,  and  just  drunk  enough  to 
shoot.  The  little  conductor  was  unmoved  and  smiling, 
and,  by  some  quiet  mesmerism,  he  kept  the  two  in 
subjection  until  the  station  was  reached. 

The  train  moved  out  and  left  us  among  the  drunken 
104 


Through  the  Bad  Bend 

maniacs,  no  house  in  sight,  the  darkness  settling  on 
us,  and  the  unclimbed  mountain  looming  up  into  it. 
The  belligerents  paid  no  attention  to  us,  however,  but 
disappeared  quickly,  with  an  occasional  pistol-shot 
and  a  yell  from  the  bushes,  each  time  soimding 
farther  away.  The  Kentucky  mountaineers  were 
going  to  climb  the  mountain.  A  storm  was  coming, 
but  there  was  nothing  else  to  do.  So  we  shouldered 
our  traps  and  followed  them. 

There  were  eight  of  us — an  old  man  and  his  two 
daughters,  the  husband  of  one  of  these,  the  sweet- 
heart of  the  other,  and  a  third  man,  who  showed  sus- 
picion of  us  from  the  beginning.  This  man  with  a 
flaring  torch  led  the  way;  the  old  man  followed  him, 
and  there  were  two  mountaineers  deep  between  the 
girls  and  us,  who  went  last. 

It  was  not  long  before  a  ragged  line  of  fire  cut 
through  the  blackness  overhead,  and  the  thunder 
began  to  crash  and  the  rain  to  fall.  The  torch  was 
beaten  out,  and  for  a  moment  there  was  a  halt. 
Breck  and  I  could  hear  a  muffled  argument  going  on 
in  the  air  above  us,  and,  climbing  toward  the  voices, 
we  felt  the  lintel  of  a  mountain-cabin  and  heard  a 
long  drawl  of  welcome. 

The  cabin  was  one  dark  room  without  even  a  loft, 
the  home  of  a  newly  married  pair.     They  themselves 

105 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

had  e^^dently  just  gotten  home,  for  the  hostess  was 
on  her  knees  at  the  big  fireplace,  blowing  a  few  coals 
into  a  blaze.  The  rest  of  us  sat  on  the  two  beds  in 
the  room  waiting  for  the  fire-light,  and  somebody 
began  talking  about  the  trouble  on  the  train. 

"  Did  you  see  that  feller  settin'  thar  with  his  hand 
under  his  coat  while  Jim  was  tryin'  to  shoot  the  brake- 
man?"  said  one.  "Well,  Jim  killed  his  brother  a 
year  ago,  an'  the  feller  was  jus'  waitin'  fer  a  chance 
to  git  Jim  right  then.     I  knowed  that." 

"  Who  was  the  big  fellow  who  started  the  row,  by 
flourishing  his  pistol  around?  "  I  asked. 

A  man  on  the  next  bed  leaned  forward  and 
laughed  slightly.  "  Well,  stranger,  I  reckon  that 
was  me." 

This  Sounds  like  the  opening  chapter  of  a  piece  of 
fiction,  but  we  had  really  stumbled  upon  this  man's 
cabin  in  the  dark,  and  he  was  our  host.  A  little 
spinal  chill  made  me  shiver.  He  had  not  seen  us  yet, 
and  I  began  to  wonder  whether  he  would  recognize 
us  when  the  light  blazed  up,  and  whether  he  would 
know  that  we  were  ready  to  take  part  against  him  in 
the  car,  and  what  would  happen,  if  he  did.  When  the 
blaze  did  kindle,  he  was  reaching  for  his  hip,  but  he 
drew  out  a  bottle  of  apple-jack  and  handed  it  over  the 
foot  of  the  bed. 

io6 


a; 


Through  the  Bad  Bend 

"  Somebody  ought  to  'a'  knocked  my  head  off,"  he 
said. 

"  That's  so,"  said  the  yoimger  girl,  with  sharp  bold- 
ness.    "  I  never  seed  sech  doin's." 

The  old  mountaineer,  her  father,  gave  her  a  quick 
rebuke,  but  the  man  laughed.  He  was  sobering  up, 
and,  apparently,  he  had  never  seen  us  before.  The 
young  wife  prepared  supper,  and  we  ate  and  went  to 
bed — the  ten  of  us  in  that  one  room.  The  two  girls 
took  off  their  shoes  and  stockings  with  frank  inno- 
cence, and  warmed  their  bare  feet  at  the  fire.  The 
host  and  hostess  gave  up  their  bed  to  the  old  moun- 
taineer and  his  son-in-law,  and  slept,  like  the  rest  of 
us,  on  the  floor. 

We  were  wakened  long  before  day.  Indeed  it  was 
pitch  dark  when,  after  a  mountain  custom,  we  stum- 
bled to  a  little  brook  close  to  the  cabin  and  washed 
our  faces.  A  wood-thrush  was  singing  somewhere  in 
the  darkness,  and  its  cool  notes  had  the  liquid  fresh- 
ness of  the  morning.  We  did  not  wait  for  breakfast, 
so  anxious  were  the  Kentuckians  to  get  home,  or  so 
fearful  were  they  of  abusing  their  host's  hospitality, 
though  the  latter  urged  us  strenuously  to  stay.  Not 
a  cent  would  he  take  from  anybody,  and  I  know  now 
that  he  was  a  moonshiner,  a  feudsman,  an  outlaw,  and 
that  he  was  running  from  the  sheriff  at  that  very  time. 

107 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

With  a  parting  pull  at  the  apple-jack,  we  began,  on 
an  empty  stomach,  that  weary  climb.  Not  far  up  the 
mountain  Breck  stopped,  panting,  while  the  moun- 
taineers were  swinging  on  up  the  path  without  an 
effort,  even  the  girls;  but  Breck  swore  that  he  had 
heart  disease,  and  must  rest.  When  I  took  part  of 
his  pack,  the  pretty  one  looked  back  over  her 
shoulder  and  smiled  at  him  without  scorn.  Both 
were  shy,  and  had  not  spoken  a  dozen  words  with 
either  of  us.  Half-way  up  we  overtook  a  man  and  a 
boy,  one  carrying  a  tremendous  demijohn  and  the 
other  a  small  hand-barrel.  They  had  been  over  on 
the  Virginia  side  selling  moonshine,  and  I  saw  the 
light  of  gladness  in  Breck's  eye,  for  his  own  flask  was 
wellnigh  empty  from  returning  our  late  host's  cour- 
tesy. But  both  man  and  boy  disappeared  with  a 
magical  suddenness  that  became  significant  later. 
Already  we  were  suspected  as  being  revenue  spies, 
though  neither  of  us  dreamed  what  the  matter  was. 

We  reached  the  top  after  daybreak,  and  the  beauty 
of  the  sunrise  over  still  seas  of  white  mist  and  wave 
after  wave  of  blue  Virginia  hills  was  unspeakable,  as 
was  the  beauty  of  the  descent  on  the  Kentucky  side, 
down  through  primeval  woods  of  majestic  oak  and 
poplar,  under  a  trembling  world  of  dew-drenched 
leaves,  and  along  a  tumbling  series  of  waterfalls  that 

1 08 


Through  the  Bad  Bend 

flashed  through  tall  ferns,  blossoming  laurel,  and 
shining  leaves  of  rhododendron. 

The  sun  was  an  hour  high  when  we  reached  the 
foot  of  the  mountain.  There  the  old  man  and  the 
young  girl  stopped  at  a  little  cabin  where  lived  the 
son-in-law.  We,  too,  were  pressed  to  stop,  but  we 
went  on  with  the  suspicious  one  to  his  house,  where 
we  got  breakfast.  There  the  people  took  pay,  for 
their  house  was  weather-boarded,  and  they  were  more 
civilized;  or  perhaps  for  the  reason  that  the  man 
thought  us  spies.  I  did  not  like  his  manner,  and  I 
got  the  first  unmistakable  hint  of  his  suspicions  after 
breakfast.  I  was  down  behind  the  bam,  and  he  and 
another  mountaineer  came  down  on  the  other  side. 

"  Didn't  one  o'  them  fellers  come  down  this  way  ?  " 
I  heard  him  ask. 

I  started  to  make  my  presence  known,  but  he  spoke 
too  quickly,  and  I  concluded  it  was  best  to  keep  still. 

"  No  tellin'  whut  them  damn  fellers  is  up  to.  I 
don't  like  their  occupation." 

That  is,  we  were  the  first  fishermen  to  cast  a 
minnow  with  a  reel  into  those  waters,  and  it  was 
beyond  the  mountaineer's  comprehension  to  under- 
stand how  two  men  could  afford  to  come  so  far  and 
spend  time  and  a  little  money  just  for  the  fun  of  fish- 
ing.    They  supposed  we  were  fishing  for  profit,  and 

109 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

later  they  asked  us  how  we  kept  our  fish  fresh,  and 
how  we  got  them  over  the  mountain,  and  where  we 
sold  them.  With  this  idea,  naturally  it  was  a  puzzle 
to  them  how  we  could  afford  to  give  a  boy  a  quarter 
for  a  dozen  minnows,  and  then,  perhaps,  catch  not  a 
single  fish  with  them. 

When  I  got  back  to  the  house,  Breck  was  rigging 
his  rod,  with  a  crowd  of  spectators  around  him.  Such 
a  rod  and  such  a  fisherman  had  never  been  seen  in 
that  country  before.  Breck  was  dressed  in  a  white 
tennis-shirt,  blue  gymnasium  breeches,  blue  stockings, 
and  white  tennis-shoes.  With  a  cap  on  his  shock  of 
black  hair  and  a  .38  revolver  in  his  belt,  he  was  a 
thing  for  those  women  to  look  at  and  to  admire,  and 
for  the  men  to  scorn — secretly,  of  course,  for  there 
was  a  look  in  his  black  eyes  that  forced  guarded  re- 
spect in  any  crowd.  The  wonder  of  those  moun- 
taineers when  he  put  his  rod  together,  fastened  the 
reel,  and  tossed  his  hook  fifty  feet  in  the  air  was  worth 
the  morning's  climb  to  see.  At  the  same  time  they 
made  fun  of  our  rods,  and  laughed  at  the  idea  of  get- 
ting out  a  big  "  green  pyerch  " — as  the  mountaineers 
call  bass — with  "  them  switches."  Their  method  is 
to  tie  a  strong  line  to  a  long  hickory  sapling,  and,  when 
they  strike  a  bass,  to  put  the  stout  pole  over  one 
shoulder  and  walk  ashore  with  it.     Before  the  sun 

no 


Through  the  Bad  Bend 

was  over  the  mountain,  we  were  wading  down  the 
stream,  while  two  boys  carried  our  minnows  and 
clothes  along  the  bank.  The  news  of  our  coming 
went  before  us,  and  every  now  and  then  a  man  would 
roll  out  of  the  bushes  with  a  gun  and  look  at  us  with 
much  suspicion  and  some  wonder.  For  two  luckless 
hours  we  cast  down  that  too  narrow  and  too  shallow 
stream  before  we  learned  that  there  was  a  dam  two 
miles  farther  down,  and  at  once  we  took  the  land  for 
it.  It  was  after  dinner  when  we  reached  it,  and 
there  the  boys  left  us.  We  could  not  induce  them  to 
go  farther.  An  old  miller  sat  outside  his  mill  across 
the  river,  looking  at  us  with  some  curiosity,  but  no 
surprise,  for  the  coming  of  a  stranger  in  those  moun- 
tains is  always  known  miles  ahead  of  him. 

We  told  him  our  names  and  that  we  were  from 
Virginia,  but  were  natives  of  the  Blue-grass,  and  we 
asked  if  he  could  give  us  dinner.  His  house  was  half 
a  mile  farther  down  the  river,  he  said,  but  the  women 
folks  were  at  home,  and  he  reckoned  they  would  give 
us  something  to  eat.  When  we  started,  I  shifted  my 
revolver  from  my  pocket  to  a  kodak-camera  case  that 
I  had  brought  along  to  hold  fishing-tackle, 

"  I  suppose  I  can  put  this  thing  in  here  ? "  I  said 
to  Breck,  not  wanting  to  risk  arrest  for  carrying  con- 
cealed weapons  and  the  confiscation  of  the  pistol, 

III 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

wliicli  was  valuable.  Breck  hesitated,  and  the  old 
miller  studied  us  keenly. 

"  "Well,"  he  said,  "  if  you  two  air  from  Kanetucky, 
liit  strikes  me  you  ought  to  know  the  laws  of  yo'  own 
State.  You  can  carry  it  in  thar  as  baggage,"  he 
added,  quietly,  and  I  knew  that  my  question  had 
added  another  fagot  to  the  flame  of  suspicion  kindling 
against  us. 

In  half  an  hour  we  were  in  the  cool  shade  of  a 
spreading  apple-tree  in  the  miller's  yard,  with  our 
bare  feet  in  thick,  cool  grass,  while  the  miller's  wife 
and  his  buxom,  red-cheeked  daughter  got  us  dinner. 
And  a  good  dinner  it  was;  and  we  laughed  and  cracked 
jokes  at  each  other  till  the  sombre,  suspicious  old  lady 
relaxed  and  laughed,  too,  and  the  girl  lost  some  of  her 
timidity  and  looked  upon  Breck  with  wide-eyed  ad- 
miration, while  Breck  ogled  back  outrageously. 

After  dinner  a  scowling  mountaineer  led  a  mule 
through  the  yard  and  gave  us  a  surly  nod.  Two 
horsemen  rode  up  to  the  gate  and  waited  to  escort 
us  down  the  river.  One  of  them  carried  our  baggage, 
for  no  matter  what  he  suspects,  the  mountaineer  will 
do  anything  in  the  world  for  a  stranger  until  the 
moment  of  actual  conflict  comes.  In  our  green  in- 
nocence, we  thought  it  rather  a  good  joke  tliat  we 
should  be  taken  for  revenue  men,  so  that,  Breck's  flask 

112 


Through  the  Bad  Bend 

being  empty,  he  began  by  telling  one  of  the  men  that 
we  had  been  wading  the  river  all  the  morning,  that 
the  water  was  cold,  and  that,  anyway,  a  little  swallow 
now  and  then  often  saved  a  fellow  from  a  cold  and 
fever.  He  had  not  been  able  to  get  any  from  any- 
body— and  couldn't  the  man  do  something?  The 
mountaineer  was  touched,  and  he  took  the  half-dollar 
that  Breck  gave  him,  and  turned  it  over,  with  a  whis- 
pered consultation,  to  one  of  two  more  horsemen  that 
we  met  later  on  the  road.  Still  farther  on  we  found 
a  beautiful  hole  of  water,  edged  with  a  smooth  bank 
of  sand — a  famous  place,  the  men  told  us,  for  green 
"  pyerch."  Mountaineers  rolled  out  of  the  bushes  to 
watch  us  while  we  were  rigging  up,  some  with  guns 
and  some  without.  We  left  our  pistols  on  the  shore, 
and  several  examined  them  curiously,  especially  mine, 
which  was  hammerless.  Later,  I  showed  them  how  it 
worked,  and  explained  that  one  advantage  of  it  was 
that,  in  close  quarters,  the  other  man  could  not  seize 
your  pistol,  get  his  finger  or  thumb  under  your  ham- 
mer, and  prevent  you  from  shooting  at  all.  This 
often  happens  in  a  fight,  of  course,  and  the  point  ap- 
pealed to  them  strongly,  but  I  could  see  that  they 
were  wondering  why  I  should  be  carrying  a  gun  that 
was  good  for  close  quarters,  since  close  quarters  are 
rarely  necessary  except  in  case  of  making  arrests. 

113 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

Pretty  soon  the  two  men  who  had  gone  for  Breck's 
"  moonshine  "  returned,  and  a  gleam  rose  in  Breck's 
eye  and  went  quickly  do^vn.  Instead  of  a  bottle,  the 
boy  handed  back  the  half-dollar. 

"  I  couldn't  git  any,"  he  said.  He  lied,  of  course, 
as  we  both  knew,  and  the  disappointment  in  Breck's 
face  was  so  sincere  that  his  companion,  with  a  gesture 
that  was  half  sympathy,  half  defiance,  whisked  a 
bottle  from  his  hip. 

"  Well,  by I'll  give  him  a  drink!  " 

It  was  fiery,  white  as  water,  and  so  fresh  that  we 
could  taste  the  smoke  in  it,  but  it  was  good,  and  we 
were  grateful.  All  the  afternoon,  from  two  to  a 
dozen  people  watched  us  fish,  but  we  had  poor  luck, 
which  is  never  a  surprise,  fishing  for  bass.  Perhaps 
the  .fish  had  gone  to  nesting,  or  the  trouble  may  have 
been  the  light  of  the  moon,  during  which  they  feed  all 
night,  and  are  not  so  hungry  through  the  day;  or  it 
may  have  been  any  of  the  myriad  reasons  that  make 
the  mystery  and  fascination  of  catching  bass.  At 
another  time,  and  from  the  same  stream,  I  have  seen 
two  rods  take  out  one  hundred  bass,  ranging  from 
one  to  five  poimds  in  weight,  in  a  single  day.  An 
hour  by  sun,  we  struck  for  the  house  of  the  old  man 
with  whom  we  had  crossed  the  mountain,  and,  that 
night,  we  learned  that  we  had  passed  through  a  local- 

114 


Through  the  Bad  Bend 

ity  alive  with  moonshiners,  and  banded  together  with 
such  system  and  determination  that  the  revenue 
agents  rarely  dared  to  make  a  raid  on  them.  We  were 
supposed  to  be  two  spies  who  were  expected  to  come 
in  there  that  spring.  We  had  passed  within  thirty 
yards  of  a  dozen  stills,  and  our  host  hinted  where  we 
might  find  them.  We  thanked  him,  and  told  him  we 
preferred  to  keep  as  far  away  from  them  as  possible. 
He  was  much  puzzled.  He  also  said  that  we  had  been  in 
the  head-quarters  of  a  famous  desperado,  who  was  the 
leader  of  the  Howard  faction  in  the  famous  Howard- 
Turner  feud.  He  was  a  non-combatant  himself,  but 
he  had  "  feelin's,"  as  he  phrased  it,  for  the  other  side. 
He  was  much  surprised  when  we  told  him  we  were 
going  back  there  next  day.  We  had  told  the  people 
we  were  coming  back,  and  next  morning  we  were 
foolish  enough  to  go. 

As  soon  as  we  struck  the  river,  we  saw  a  man  with 
a  Winchester  sitting  on  a  log  across  the  stream,  as 
though  his  sole  business  in  life  was  to  keep  an  eye  on 
us.  All  that  day  we  were  never  out  of  sight  of  a 
mountaineer  and  a  gun;  we  never  had  been,  I  pre- 
sume, since  our  first  breakfast  on  that  stream.  Still, 
everybody  was  kind  and  hospitable  and  honest — • 
how  honest  this  incident  will  show.  An  old  woman 
cooked  dinner  especially  for  us,  and  I  gave  her  two 

115 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

quarters.  She  took  them,  put  them  away,  and  while 
she  sat  smoking  her  pipe,  I  saw  something  was 
troubling  her.  She  got  up  presently,  went  into  a 
room,  came  back,  and  without  a  word  dropped  one  of 
the  quarters  into  my  hand.  Half  a  dollar  was  too 
much.  They  gave  us  moonshine,  too,  and  Breck 
remarked  casually  that  we  were  expecting  to  meet 
our  friends  at  Uncle  Job  Turner's,  somewhere  down 
the  river.  They  would  have  red  whiskey  from  the 
Blue-grass  and  we  would  be  all  right.  Then  he 
asked  how  far  down  Uncle  Job  lived.  The  remark 
and  the  question  occasioned  very  badly  concealed  ex- 
citement, and  I  wondered  what  had  happened,  but  I 
did  not  ask.  I  was  getting  wary,  and  I  had  become 
quite  sure  that  the  fishing  must  be  better  down,  very 
far  down,  that  stream.  When  we  started  again,  the. 
mountaineers  evidently  held  a  quick  council  of  war. 
One  can  hear  a  long  distance  over  water  at  the  quiet 
of  dusk,  and  they  were  having  a  lively  discussion  about 
us  and  our  business  over  there.  Somebody  was  de- 
fending us,  and  I  recognized  the  voice  as  belonging  to 
a  red-whiskered  fellow,  who  said  he  had  lived  awhile 
in  the  Blue-grass,  an3  had  seen  young  fellows  starting 
to  the  Kentucky  River  to  fish  for  fun.  "  Oh,  them 
damn  fellers  ain't  up  to  nothin',"  we  could  hear  him 
say,  with  the  disgust  of  the  cosmopolitan.     "  I  tell 

ii6 


Through  the  Bad  Bend 

ye,  they  lives  in  town  an'  they  likes  to  git  out  this 
way!  " 

I  have  always  believed  that  this  man  saved  us 
trouble  right  then,  for  next  night  the  mountaineers 
came  down  in  a  body  to  the  house  where  we  had  last 
stopped.  But  we  had  gone  on  rather  hastily,  and 
when  we  reached  Uncle  Job  Turner's,  the  trip  behind 
us  became  more  interesting  than  ever  in  retrospect. 
All  along  we  asked  where  Uncle  Job  lived,  and  once 
we  shouted  the  question  across  the  river,  where  some 
women  and  boys  were  at  work,  weeding  corn.  As 
usual,  the  answer  was  another  question,  and  always 
the  same — what  were  our  names?  Breck  yelled,  in 
answer,  that  we  were  from  Virginia,  and  that  they 
would  be  no  wiser  if  we  should  tell — an  answer  that 
will  always  be  unwise  in  the  mountains  of  Kentucky 
as  long  as  moonshine  is  made  and  feuds  survive.  We 
asked  again,  and  another  yell  told  us  that  the  next 
house  was  Uncle  Job's.  The  next  house  was  rather 
pretentious.  It  had  two  or  three  rooms,  apparently, 
and  a  loft,  and  was  weather-boarded;  but  it  was  as 
silent  as  a  tomb.  We  shouted  "Hello!  "  from  out- 
side the  fence,  which  is  etiquette  in  the  mountains. 
I^ot  a  sound.  We  shouted  again — once,  twice,  many 
times.  It  was  most  strange.  Then  we  waited,  and 
shouted  again,  and  at  last  a  big  gray-haired  old  fel- 

117 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

low  slouclied  out  and  asked  rather  surlily  wliat  we 
wanted. 

"  Dinner." 

He  seemed  pleased  that  that  was  all,  and  his  man- 
ner changed  immediately.  His  wife  appeared;  then, 
as  if  by  magic,  two  or  three  children,  one  a  slim, 
wild,  dark-eyed  girl  of  fifteen,  dressed  in  crimson 
homespun.  As  we  sat  on  the  porch  I  saw  her  passing 
through  the  dark  rooms,  but  always,  while  we  were 
there,  if  I  entered  one  door  she  slipped  out  of  the 
other.  Breck  was  more  fortunate.  He  came  up 
behind  her  the  next  day  at  sundown  while  she  was 
dancing  barefooted  in  the  dust  of  the  road,  driving  her 
cows  home.  Later  I  saw  him  in  the  cow-pen,  helping 
her  milk.     He  said  she  was  very  nice,  but  very  shy. 

We  got  dinner,  and  the  old  man  sent  after  a  bottle 
of  moonshine,  and  in  an  hour  he  was  thawed  out  won- 
derfully. 

We  told  him  where  we  had  been,  and  as  he  slowly 
began  to  believe  us,  he  alternately  grew  sobered  and 
laughed  aloud. 

"  Went  through  thar  fishin',  did  ye?  Wore  yo' 
pistols?  Axed  whar  thar  was  branches  whar  you 
could  ketch  minners?  Oh,  Lawd!  Didn't  ye  know 
that  the  stills  air  al'ays  up  the  branches?  Tol'  'em 
you  was  goin'  to  meet  a  party  at  my  house,  and  stay 

.118 


vThrough  the  Bad  Bend 

here  awhile  fishin^f  Oh,  Lawdy!  Ef  that  ain^t  a 
good  un!  " 

We  didn't  see  it,  but  we  did  later,  when  we  knew 
that  we  had  come  through  the  "  Bad  Bend,"  which 
was  the  head-quarters  of  the  Howard  leader  and  his 
chief  men;  that  Uncle  Job  was  the  most  prominent 
man  of  the  other  faction,  and  lived  farthest  up  the 
river  of  all  the  Turners;  that  he  hadn't  been  up  in 
the  Bend  for  ten  years,  and  that  we  had  given  his 
deadly  enemies  the  impression  that  we  were  friends  of 
his.  As  Uncle  Job  grew  mellow,  and  warmed  up  in 
his  confidences,  something  else  curious  came  out. 
Every  now  and  then  he  would  look  at  me  and  say: 

"  I  seed  you  lookin'  at  my  pants."  And  then  he 
would  throw  back  his  head  and  laugh.  After  he  had 
said  this  for  the  third  time,  I  did  look  at  his  "  pants," 
and  I  saw  that  he  was  soaking  wet  to  the  thighs — 
why,  I  soon  learned.  A  nephew  of  his  had  killed  a 
man  at  the  county-seat  only  a  week  before.  Uncle 
Job  had  gone  on  his  bond.  When  we  shouted  across 
the  river,  he  was  in  the  cornfield,  and  when  we  did 
not  tell  our  names,  he  got  suspicious,  and,  mistaking 
our  rod-holders  for  guns,  had  supposed  that  his  nephew 
had  run  away,  and  that  we  were  officers  come  to  arrest 
him.  He  had  run  down  the  river  on  the  other  side, 
had  waded  the  stream,  and  was  up  in  the  loft  with  his 

119 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

Winchester  on  us  while  we  were  shouting  at  his  gate. 
He  told  us  this  very  frankly.  ]!^or  would  even  he 
believe  that  we  were  fishing.  He,  too,  thought  that 
we  were  officers  looking  through  the  Bad  Bend  for 
some  criminal,  and  the  least  innocent  mission  that 
struck  him  as  plausible  was  that,  perhaps,  we  might  be 
looking  over  the  ground  to  locate  a  railroad,  or  pros- 
pecting for  coal  veins.  When  Uncle  Job  went  down 
the  road  with  us  the  next  morning,  he  took  his  wife 
along,  so  that  no  Howard  would  try  to  ambush  him 
through  fear  of  hitting  a  woman.  And  late  that 
afternoon,  when  we  were  fishing  with  Uncle  Job's  son 
in  some  thick  bushes  behind  the  house,  some  women 
passed  along  in  the  path  above  us,  and,  seeing  us,  but 
not  seeing  him,  scurried  out  of  sight  as  though  fright- 
ened.    Little  Job  grinned. 

"  Them  women  thinks  the  Howards  have  hired  you 
fellers  to  layway  dad." 

The  next  morning  I  lost  Breck,  and  about  noon  I 
got  a  note  from  him,  written  with  a  trembling  lead- 
pencil,  to  the  effect  that  he  beHeved  he  would  fish  up  a 
certain  creek  that  afternoon.  As  the  creek  was  not 
more  than  three  feet  wide  and  a  few  inches  deep,  I 
knew  what  had  happened,  and  I  climbed  one  of  Job's 
mules  and  went  to  search  for  him.  Breck  had 
stumbled  upon  a  moonshine  still,  and,  getting  hilari* 

120 


Through  the  Bad  Bend 

ous,  had  climbed  a  barrel  and  was  making  to  a  crowd 
of  mountaineers  a  fiery  political  speech.  Breck  had 
captured  that  creek,  "  wild-cat "  still  and  all,  and  to 
this  day  I  never  meet  a  mountaineer  from  that  region 
who  does  not  ask,  with  a  wide  grin,  about  Breck. 

When  we  reached  the  county-seat,  the  next  day,  we 
met  the  revenue  deputy.  He  said  the  town  was  talk- 
ing about  two  spies  who  were  up  the  Fork.  "We  told 
him  that  we  must  be  the  spies.  The  old  miller  was 
the  brains  of  the  Bend,  he  said,  both  in  outwitting  the 
revenue  men  and  in  planning  the  campaign  of  the 
Howard  leader  against  the  Turners,  and  he  told  us  of 
several  fights  he  had  had  in  the  Bad  Bend.  He  said 
that  we  were  lucky  to  come  through  alive;  that  what 
saved  us  was  sticking  to  the  river,  hiring  our  minnows 
caught,  leaving  our  pistols  on  the  bank  to  be  picked 
up  by  anybody,  the  defence  of  the  red-whiskered  man 
from  the  Blue-grass,  and  Breck's  popularity  at  the 
still.  I  thought  he  was  exaggerating — that  the 
mountaineers,  even  if  convinced  that  we  were  spies, 
would  have  given  us  a  chance  to  get  out  of  the 
country — but  when  he  took  me  over  to  a  room  across 
the  street  and  showed  me  where  his  predecessor,  a  man 
whom  I  had  known  quite  well,  was  shot  through  a 
window  at  night  and  killed,  I  was  not  quite  so  sure. 

But  still  another  straw  of  suspicion  was  awaiting  us. 

121 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

When  we  reached  the  railroad  again — by  another 
route,  you  may  be  sure — Breck,  being  a  lawyer,  got 
permission  for  us  to  ride  on  a  freight-train,  and  thus 
save  a  night  and  a  day.  The  pass  for  us  was  tech- 
nically charged  to  the  mail  service.  The  captain  and 
crew  of  the  train  were  overwhelmingly  and  mysteri- 
ously polite  to  us — an  inexplicable  contrast  to  the 
surliness  with  which  passengers  are  usually  treated 
on  a  freight-train.  When  we  got  off  at  the  Gap, 
and  several  people  greeted  us  by  name,  the  captain 
laughed. 

"  Do  you  know  what  these  boys  thought  you  two 
were? "  he  asked,  referring  to  his  crew.  "  They 
thought  you  were  freight  '  spotters.'  " 

The  crew  laughed.  I  looked  at  Breck,  and  I  didn't 
wonder.  He  was  a  ragged,  unshaven  tramp,  and  I 
was  another. 

Months  later,  I  got  a  message  from  the  Bad  Bend. 
Breck  and  I  mustn't  come  through  there  any  more. 
We  have  never  gone  through  there  any  more, 
though  anybody  on  business  that  the  mountaineers 
understand,  can  go  more  safely  than  he  can  cross 
Broadway  at  Twenty-third  Street,  at  noon.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  however,  there  are  two  other  forks  to 
the  Cumberland  in  which  the  fishing  is  very  good 
indeed,  and  just  now  I  would  rather  risk  Broadway. 

122 


Fox-Hunting  in  Kentucky 


Fox-Hunting  in  Kentucky 


THE  Judge  parted  his  coat-tails  to  the  big  pine- 
wood  blaze,  and,  with  one  measuring,  vertical 
glance,  asked  me  two  questions: 
"  Do  you  hunt  coons?     Do  you  hunt  gray  foxes?  '* 
A  plea  of  not  guilty  was  made  to  both,  and  the 
Judge  waved  his  hand. 

"  If  you  do,"  he  said,  "  I  decline  to  discuss  the 
subject  with  you." 

Already  another  fox-hunter,  who  was  still  young, 
and  therefore  not  quite  lost  to  the  outer  world,  had 
warned  me.  "  They  are  cranks,"  he  said,  "  fox-hunt- 
ers are — all  of  'em." 

And  then  he,  who  was  yet  sane,  went  on  to  tell  about 
his  hound.  Red  Star:  how  Red  Star  would  seek  a  lost 
trail  from  stump  to  stump,  or  on  top  of  a  rail-fence; 
or,  when  crows  cawed,  would  leave  the  trail  and  make 
for  the  crows;  how  he  had  once  followed  a  fox  twenty 
hours,  and  had  finally  gone  after  him  into  a  sink-hole, 

125 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

from  which  he  had  been  rescued  several  days  later, 
almost  starved.  On  cold  winter  nights  the  young 
hunter  would  often  come  on  the  lonely  figure  of  the 
old  Judge,  who  had  walked  miles  out  of  town  merely 
to  sit  on  the  fence  and  listen  to  the  hounds.  Against 
him,  the  warning  was  particular.  I  made  a  tentative 
mention  of  the  drag-hunt,  in  which  the  hounds  often 
ran  mute,  and  the  fun  was  in  the  horse,  the  ride, 
and  the  fences.  For  a  moment  the  Judge  was  re- 
flective. 

"  I  remember,"  he  said,  slowly,  as  though  he  were 
a  century  back  in  reminiscence,  "  that  the  darkies  used 
to  drag  a  coonskin  through  the  woods,  and  run  mon- 
grels after  it." 

A  hint  of  fine  scorn  was  in  his  tone,  but  it  was  the 
scorn  of  the  sportsman  and  not  of  the  sectionalist, 
though  the  Judge,  when  he  was  only  fifteen,  had 
carried  pistol  and  sabre  after  John  Morgan,  and  was, 
so  the  General  said,  a  moment  later,  the  gamest  man 
in  the  Confederacy. 

"  Why,  sir,  there  is  but  one  nobler  animal  than  a 
long-eared,  deep-mouthed,  patient  fox-hound — and 
that  is  a  woman!  Think  of  treating  him  that  way! 
And  the  music  is  the  thing!  Many  an  old  Virginian 
would  give  away  a  dog  because  his  tongue  was  not  in 
harmony  with  the  rest.     The   chorus  should  be   a 

126 


Fox-Hunting  in  Kentucky 

chord.  I  shall  never  hear  sweeter  music,  unless,  by 
the  grace  of  Heaven,  I  hear  some  day  the  choiring  of 
angels." 

I  was  about  to  speak  of  the  Maine  and  Massachu- 
setts custom  of  shooting  the  fox  before  the  hounds,  but 
the  Judge  forestalled  me. 

"  I  believe,  sir,  that  is  worse — if  worse  be  possible. 
I  do  not  know  what  excuse  the  gentlemen  make. 
They  say,  I  believe,  that  their  dogs  cannot  catch  their 
red  fox — that  no  dogs  can.  "Well,  the  ground  up 
there,  being  rough,  is  favorable  to  the  fox,  but  our 
dogs  can  catch  him.  Logan,  a  Kentucky  dog,  has 
just  caught  a  Massachusetts  fox  for  the  Brunswick 
Fur  Club,  and  we  have  much  better  dogs  here  than 
Logan. 

"  Yes,"  he  added,  tranquilly;  "  I  believe  it  is  gen- 
erally conceded  now  that  the  Kentucky  dog  has  taken 
a  stand  with  the  Kentucky  horse.  The  winnings  on 
the  bench  and  in  the  field,  the  reports  wherever  Ken- 
tucky dogs  have  been  sent,  the  advertisements  in  the 
sporting  papers,  all  show  that.  Steve  Walker,  who,  by 
the  way,  will  never  sell  a  dog,  and  who  will  buy  any 
dog  that  can  beat  his  own,  has  tried  every  strain  in 
this  country  except  the  Wild  Goose  Pack  of  Tennes- 
see. He  has  never  gone  outside  the  State  without 
getting  a  worse  dog.     I  reckon  phosphate  of  lime  has 

127 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

something  to  do  with  it.  The  same  natural  forces  in 
the  Bhie-grass  region  that  make  horses  better  im- 
prove the  dogs.  Since  the  war,  too,  we  have  bred 
with  more  care;  we  have  hunted  more  than  people 
elsewhere,  and  we  have  bred  the  dog  as  we  have  the 
race-horse.  Why,  the  Walkers — ah!  " — the  Judge 
stopped  to  listen — "There's  Steve's  horn  now!  " 

Only  one  mdn  could  blow  that  long  mellow  call, 
swelling  and  falling  without  a  break,  and  ending  like 
a  distant  echo. 

"  We  better  go,  boys,"  he  said. 

Outside  the  hotel,  the  hunter's  moon  was  tipped 
just  over  one  of  the  many  knobs  from  which  Daniel 
Boone  is  said  to  have  looked  first  over  the  Blue-grass 
land.  A  raindrop  would  have  slipped  from  it  into 
the  red  dawn  just  beneath.  And  that  was  the  trouble, 
for  himters  say  there  is  never  rain  to  drop  when  the 
moon  is  tipped  that  way.  So  the  field  trials  had  been 
given  up;  the  country  was  too  rough;  and  the  ele- 
ments and  the  local  sportsmen,  who  hunted  the  ground 
by  night  that  we  were  to  hunt  by  day,  held  the  effort 
in  disfavor.  That  day  everybody  and  everybody's 
hound  were  to  go  loose  for  simple  fun,  and  the  fun  was 
beginning  before  dawn.  In  the  stable-yard,  darkies 
and  mountaineers  were  bridling  and  saddling  horses. 
The  hunters  were  noisily  coming  and  going  from  the 

128 


Fox-Hunting  in  Kentucky 

little  hotel  that  was  a  famous  summer-resort  in  the 
Bath  County  Hills  forty  years  ago,  and,  once  owned  by 
a  great  Kentuckian,  was,  the  tradition  goes,  lost  by  him 
in  a  game  of  poker.  Among  them  were  several  Blue- 
grass  girls  in  derby  hats,  who  had  been  in  the  saddle 
with  us  on  the  previous  day  from  dark  to  dark,  and  on 
to  midnight,  and  who  were  ready  to  do  it  again. 
There  were  fox-hunters  from  Maine,  the  Virginias, 
Ohio,  and  from  England;  and  the  contrasts  were 
marked  even  among  the  Kentuckians  who  came  from 
the  Iroquois  Club,  of  Lexington,  with  bang-tailed 
horses  and  top-boots;  from  the  Strodes  Valley  Hunt 
Club  and  the  Bourbon  Kennels,  who  disdain  any  ac- 
coutrement on  horseback  that  they  do  not  wear  on 
foot;  and  from  the  best-known  fox-hunting  family  in 
the  South,  who  dress  and  hunt  after  their  own  way,  and 
whom  I  shall  call  Walkers,  because  they  are  never  seen 
on  foot.  N^o  Walker  reaches  the  age  of  sixteen  with- 
out being  six  feet  high.  There  were  four  with  us, 
and  the  shortest  was  six  feet  two,  and  weighed  185 
pounds.  They  wore  great  oilskin  mackintoshes,  and 
were  superbly  mounted  on  half  thoroughbreds.  Not 
long  ago  they  carried  their  native  county  Democratic 
for  one  friend  by  250  majority.  At  the  next  election 
they  carried  it  Republican  by  the  same  majority  for  an- 
other friend.    "  We  own  everything  in  common,"  said 

129 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

one,  who  asked  me  to  come  over  and  spend  a  few 
montlis,  or  a  year,  or  the  rest  of  my  natural  life  with 
him,  "  except  our  dogs."  No  Walker's  dog  will  follow 
any  other  Walker,  or  come  to  his  horn.  All  the  Walk- 
ers had  great,  soft  musical  voices  and  gentle  manners. 
All  were  church  members,  and,  mirabile  dictu,  only 
one  of  the  four  touched  whiskey,  and  he  hghtly. 
About  one  of  them  the  General  told  a  remarkable 
story. 

This  Walker,  he  said,  got  into  a  difficulty  with  an- 
other young  man  just  after  the  war.  The  two  rode 
into  the  county  town,  hitched  their  horses,  and  met 
in  the  court-house  square.  They  drew  their  pistols, 
which  were  old-fashioned,  and  emptied  them,  each 
man  getting  one  bullet.  Then  they  drew  knives. 
They  closed  in  after  both  had  been  cut  shghtly.  The 
other  man  made  for  Walker's  abdomen,  just  as 
Walker's  knife  was  high  over  his  head  for  a  terrible 
downward  stroke.  Walker  had  on  an  old  army  belt, 
and  the  knife  struck  the  buckle  and  broke  at  the  hilt. 
Walker  saw  it  as  his  knife  started  down.  He  is  a  man 
of  fierce  passion,  but  even  at  that  moment  he  let  hia 
knife  fall  and  walked  away. 

"  It's  easy  enough  in  a  duel,"  commented  the  Gen- 
eral, "  when  everything  is  cool  and  deliberate,  to  hold 
up  if  your  adversary's  pistol  gets  out  of  order;  but  in 

130 


Fox-Hunting  in  Kentucky 

a  hand-to-hand  fight  like  that!     They  have  been  close 
friends  ever  since — naturally." 

Being  such  a  company,  we  rode  out  of  the  stable- 
yard  through  the  frosty  dawn  toward  the  hills,  which 
sink  by  and  by  to  the  gentle  undulations  of  Blue-grass 
pasture  and  woodland. 


n 

In  Kentucky,  the  hunting  of  the  red  fox  antedates 
the  war  but  little.  The  old  Kentucky  fox-hound  was 
of  every  color,  loose  in  build,  with  open  feet  and  a 
cowhide  tail.  He  had  a  good  nose,  and  he  was  slow, 
but  he  was  fast  enough  for  the  gray  fox  and  the  deer. 
Somewhere  about  1855  the  fox-hunters  discovered 
that  their  hounds  were  chasing  something  they  could 
not  catch.  A  little  later  a  mule-driver  came  through 
Cumberland  Gap  with  a  young  hound  that  he  called 
Lead.  Lead  caught  the  eye  of  old  General  Maupin, 
who  lived  in  Madison  County,  and  whose  name  is 
now  known  to  every  fox-hunter  North  and  South. 
Maupin  started  poor,  and  made  a  fortune  in  a  frolic. 
He  would  go  out  hunting  with  his  hounds,  and  would 
come  back  home  with  a  drove  of  sheep  and  cattle.  He 
was  a  keen  trader,  and  would  buy  anything.  He 
bought  Lead,  and,  in  the  first  chase,  Lead  slipped  away 

131 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

from  the  old  deer-hounds  as  though  he  knew  what  he 
was  after;  and  it  was  not  long  before  he  captured  the 
strange  little  beast  that  had  been  puzzling  man  and 
dog  so  long.  Lead  was  thus  the  first  hound  to  catch 
a  red  fox  in  Kentucky;  and  since  every  fox-hound  in 
the  State  worthy  of  the  name  goes  back  to  Lead,  he  is 
a  very  important  personage.  General  Maupin  never 
learned  Lead's  exact  origin;  perhaps  he  did  not  try 
very  hard,  for  he  soon  ran  across  a  suspicion  that  Lead 
had  been  stolen.  He  tried  other  dogs  from  the  same 
locality  in  Tennessee  from  which  he  supposed  the 
hound  came,  but  with  no  good  results.  Lead  was  a 
lusus  naturcB,  and  old  fox-hunters  say  that  his  like 
was  never  before  him,  and  has  never  been  since. 

People  came  for  miles  to  see  the  red  fox  that  Lead 
ran  down,  and  the  event  was  naturally  an  epoch  in  the 
history  of  the  chase  in  Kentucky.  Nobody  knows 
why  it  took  the  red  fox  so  long  to  make  up  his  mind 
to  emigrate  to  Kentucky,  not  being  one  of  the  second 
families  of  Virginia,  and  nobody  knows  why  he  came 
at  all.  Perhaps  the  shrewd  little  beast  learned  that 
over  the  mountains  the  dogs  were  slow  and  old-fash- 
ioned, and  that  he  could  have  great  fun  with  them  and 
die  of  old  age;  perhaps  the  prescience  of  the  war 
moved  him;  but  certain  it  is  that  he  did  not  take  the 
"  Wilderness  Road  "  until  the  fifties,  when  began  the 

132 


Fox-Hunting  in  Kentucky 

inexplicable  movement  of  his  race  south  and  south- 
west. But  he  took  the  trail  of  the  gray  fox  then,  just 
as  the  tide-water  Virginians  took  the  trail  of  the 
pioneers,  and  the  gray  fox  gave  way,  and  went 
farther  west,  as  did  the  pioneer,  and  let  the  little  red- 
coated  aristocrat  stamp  his  individuality  on  the  Blue- 
grass  as  his  human  brother  had  done.  For  a  long 
while  he  did  have  fun  with  those  clumsy  old  hounds, 
running  a  hundred  easy  lengths  ahead,  dawdling  time 
and  again  past  his  den,  disdaining  to  take  refuge,  and 
turning  back  to  run  past  the  hounds  when  they  had 
given  up  the  chase — great  fun,  until  old  Lead  came. 
After  that.  General  Maupin  and  the  Walkers  imported 
Martha  and  Rifler  from  England,  and,  since  then,  the 
red  fox  has  been  kept  to  his  best  pace  so  steadily  that 
he  now  shows  a  proper  respect  for  even  a  young  Ken- 
tucky fox-hound.  He  was  a  great  solace  after  the  war, 
for  Kentucky  was  less  impoverished  than  other  South- 
ern States,  horses  were  plentiful,  it  was  inexpensive  to 
keep  hounds,  and  other  game  was  killed  off.  But 
fox-hunting  got  into  disrepute.  Hunting  in  Southern 
fashion  requires  a  genius  for  leisure  that  was  taken 
advantage  of  by  ne'er-do-weels  and  scapegraces,  yoimg 
and  old,  who  used  it  as  a  cloak  for  idleness,  drinking, 
and  general  mischief.  They  broke  down  the  farmer's 
fences,  left  his  gates  open,  trampled  his  grain,  and 

133 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

brought  a  reproach  on  the  fox-hunter  that  is  alive  yet. 
It  is  dying  rapidly,  however,  and  families  like  the 
Clays,  of  Bourbon,  the  Robinsons  and  Hamiltons,  of 
Mount  Sterhng,  the  Millers  and  Winns,  of  Clark,  and 
the  Walkers,  of  Garrard,  are  lifting  the  chase  into 
high  favor.  Hitherto,  the  hunting  has  been  done  in- 
dividually. Now  hunt  clubs  are  being  formed. 
Chief  among  them  are  the  Bourbon  Kennels,  the 
Strodes  Valley  Hunt  Club,  and  the  Iroquois  Club,  the 
last  having  been  in  existence  for  ten  years.  This  club 
does  not  confine  itself  to  foxes,  but  is  democratic 
enough  to  include  coons  and  rabbits. 

Except  in  Maine  and  Massachusetts,  where  the  fox 
is  shot  before  the  hounds,  fox-hunting  in  the  N'orth  is 
modelled  after  English  ways.  In  Kentucky  and  else- 
where in  the  South,  it  is  almost  another  sport.  The 
Englishman  wants  his  pack  uniform  in  color,  size, 
tongue,  and  speed — a  hound  that  is  too  fast  must  be 
counted  out.  The  Kentuckian  wants  his  hound  to 
leave  the  rest  behind,  if  he  can.  He  has  no  whipper- 
in,  no  master  of  the  hounds.  Each  man  cries  on  his 
own  dog.  Nor  has  he  any  hunting  terms,  like  "  cross- 
country riding,"  or  "  riding  to  hounds."  To  hunt  for 
the  pleasure  of  the  ride  is  his  last  thought.  The  fun 
is  in  the  actual  chase,  in  knowing  the  ways  of  the 
plucky  little  animal,  in  knowing  the  hounds  indi- 

134 


Fox-Hunting  in  Kentucky 

vidually,  and  the  tongue  of  each,  in  the  competition 
of  one  man's  dog  with  another,  or  of  favorites  in  the 
same  pack.  It  is  not  often  that  the  hounds  are  fol- 
lowed steadily.  The  stake-and-ridered  fences  every- 
where, and  the  barbed  wire  in  the  Blue-grass,  would 
make  following  impossible,  even  if  it  were  desirable. 
Instead,  the  hunters  ride  from  ridge  to  ridge  to  wait, 
to  listen,  and  to  see.  The  "Walkers  hunt  chiefly  at 
night.  The  fox  is  then  making  his  circuit  for  food, 
and  the  scent  is  better.  Less  stock  is  moving  about  to 
be  frightened,  or  among  which  the  fox  can  confuse 
the  hounds.  The  music  has  a  mysterious  sweetness, 
the  hounds  hunt  better,  it  seems  less  a  waste  of 
time,  and  it  is  more  picturesque.  At  night  the  hounds 
trot  at  the  horses'  heels  until  a  fire  is  built  on  some 
ridge.  Then  they  go  out  to  hunt  a  trail,  while  the 
hunters  tie  their  horses  in  the  brush,  and  sit  around 
the  fire  telling  stories  until  some  steady  old  hound 
gives  tongue. 

"There's  old  Rock!  Whoop-ee!  Go  it,  old 
boy!"  Only  he  doesn't  say  "old  boy"  exactly. 
The  actual  epithet  is  bad,  though  it  is  endearing.  It 
reaches  old  Rock  if  jbe  is  three  miles  away,  and  the 
crowd  listens. 

"  There's  Ranger!  Go  it,  Alice,  old  girl!  Lead's 
ahead!  " 

135 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

Then  they  listen  to  the  music.  Sometimes  the  fox 
takes  an  unsuspected  turn,  and  they  mount  and  ride 
for  another  ridge;  and  the  reckless,  daredevil  race 
they  make  through  the  woods  in  the  dark  is  to  an  out- 
sider pure  insanity.  Sometimes  a  man  will  want  to 
go  on  one  side  of  the  tree  when  his  horse  prefers  an- 
other, and  the  man  is  carried  home  senseless.  Some- 
times a  horse  is  killed,  but  no  lesson  is  learned.  The 
idea  prevails  that  the  more  reckless  one  is,  the  better 
is  his  chance  to  get  through  alive,  and  it  seems  to  hold 
good.  In  their  county,  the  "Walkers  have  both  hills 
and  blue-grass  in  which  to  hunt.  The  fox,  they  say, 
is  leaving  the  hills,  and  taking  up  his  home  in  the  plan- 
tations, because  he  can  get  his  living  there  with  more 
ease.  They  hunt  at  least  three  nights  out  of  the  week 
all  the  year  around,  and  they  say  that  May  is  the  best 
month  of  the  year.  The  fox  is  rearing  her  young 
then.  The  hunters  build  a  fire  near  a  den,  the  she- 
fox  barks  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  dogs,  and  the 
race  begins.  At  that  time,  the  fox  will  not  take  a 
straight  line  to  the  mountains  and  end  the  chase  as  at 
other  times  of  the  year,  but  will  circle  about  the  den. 
It  is  true,  perhaps,  that  at  such  times  the  male  fox 
relieves  the  mother  and  takes  his  turn  in  keeping 
the  hounds  busy.  The  hunters  thus  get  their  pleas- 
ure without  being  obliged  to  leave  their  camp-fire 

136 


Listening  to  the   Music  of  the   Dogs. 


Fox-Hunting  in  Kentucky 

Karely  at  this  time  is  the  fox  caught,  and  provided  he 
has  had  the  fun  of  the  chase,  the  Kentucky  hunter  is 
secretly  glad,  I  believe,  that  the  little  fellow  has  gone 
scot-free. 

Such  being  the  hunt,  there  is,  of  course,  no  cere- 
mony whatever  in  its  details;  it  is  "  go  as  you  please," 
as  to  horse,  way  of  riding,  dress,  and  riding  accoutre- 
ments. The  effect  is  picturesque  and  individual. 
Each  man  dresses,  usually,  as  he  dresses  on  foot,  his  seat 
is  the  military  seat,  his  bridle  has  one  rein,  his  horse 
is  bridle-wise,  and  his  hunter  is  his  saddle-horse.  The 
Kentuckian  does  not  like  to  trot  anywhere  in  the 
saddle.  He  prefers  to  go  in  a  "  rack,"  or  a  running 
walk.  His  horse,  when  he  jumps  at  all,  does  not  take 
fences  in  his  stride,  but  standing.  And  I  have  yet  to 
see  anything  more  graceful  than  the  slow  rear,  the 
calculating  poise,  the  leap  wholly  from  the  hind  feet, 
and  the  quick,  high  gather  to  clear  the  fence.  It  is 
not  impossible  to  find  a  horse  that  will  feel  for  the  top 
rail  with  his  knees,  and  if  they  are  not  high  enough, 
he  will  lift  them  higher  before  making  his  leap,  I 
have  known  of  one  horse  that,  while  hitched  to  a  stake- 
and-ridered  fence,  would  jump  the  fence  without 
unhitching  himself. 

It  was  an  odd  and  interesting  crowd  that  went 
through  the  woods  that  morning — those  long-maned, 

^Z7 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

long-tailed  horses,  and  their  riders,  the  giants  in 
slouched  hats  and  oilskins,  the  pretty  girls  with  a  soft 
fire  of  anticipation  in  their  straight,  clear  eyes — 
especially  to  the  hunters  from  the  East,  and  to  the 
Englishman  with  his  little  hunting-saddle,  his  short 
stirrups,  his  top-boots  thrust  into  them  to  the  heels, 
and  his  jockey-like  seat — just  as  he  was  odd  to  them. 
I  saw  one  Kentuckian  double  on  his  horse,  laughing 
at  the  apparent  inefficiency  of  his  appearance,  little 
knowing  that  in  the  English  hunting-field  the  laugh 
would  have  been  the  other  way. 

To  the  stranger,  the  hounds  doubtless  looked  small 
and  wiry,  being  bred  for  speed,  as  did  the  horses,  be- 
cause of  the  thoroughbred  blood  in  them,  livery  hacks 
though  most  of  them  were.  Perhaps  he  was  most 
surprised  at  the  way  those  girls  dashed  through  the 
woods,  and  the  way  the  horses  galloped  over  stones  and 
roots,  and  climbed  banks,  for  which  purpose  the  East- 
ern hunter  would  have  been  inadequate,  through  lack 
of  training.  The  Southern  way  of  riding  doubtless 
struck  him  as  slovenly — the  loose  rein,  the  toes  in  the 
stirrups  (which  upheld  merely  the  weight  of  the  legs), 
the  easy,  careless,  graceful  seat;  but  he  soon  saw  that 
it  was  admirably  adapted  to  the  purpose  at  hand — 
staying  on  the  horse  and  getting  out  all  that  there  was 
in  him.     For  when  the  Southern  fox-hunter  starts 

138 


Fox-Hunting  in  Kentucky 

after  his  hounds  through  wood  and  thicket,  in  day- 
light or  dark,  you  know  whence  came  the  dashing 
horsemanship  that  gave  the  South  a  marked  advantage 
some  thirty  years  ago.  And  when  he  gets  warmed 
up,  and  opens  his  throat  to  cry  on  his  favorite  hound, 
you  know  at  last  the  origin  of  the  "  rebel  yell,"  and 
you  hear  it  again  but  little  changed  to-day. 


Ill 

Within  ten  minutes  after  the  dogs  were  unleashed, 
there  was  an  inspiriting  little  brush  through  the 
woods.  A  mule  went  down,  and  his  rider  executed 
a  somersault.  Another  rider  was  unhorsed  against  a 
tree.  How  the  girls  came  through  with  their  skirts 
was  a  mystery ;  but  there  they  were,  eager  and  smiling, 
when  we  halted  on  the  edge  of  a  cleared  field.  The 
hounds  were  circling  far  to  the  left.  The  General 
pointed  to  a  smouldering  fire  which  the  local  sportsmen 
had  used  through  the  night. 

"  It's  an  old  trail,"  he  said,  and  we  waited  there,  as 
we  waited  anywhere,  with  an  unwearying  patience 
that  would  have  thrown  an  Eastern  hunter  into 
hysteria. 

"  Ko,  sir,"  said  the  General,  courteously,  in  answer 
to  a  question;  "  I  never  sell  a  fox-dog;  I  consider  him 

139 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

a  member  of  my  household.  It  would  be  a  sacrilege 
to  sell  him."  Then  he  continued  learnedly  and 
calmly: 

"  As  is  the  fox,  so  in  time  is  the  dog;  that  is  the 
theory.  The  old  English  dog  was  big-boned,  coarse, 
and  heavy,  and  he  had  to  have  greyhound  blood 
before  he  could  catch  the  English  red  fox.  The  Eng- 
lish dog  has  always  been,  and  is  now,  inadequate  for 
the  American  red  fox.  By  selection,  by  breeding 
winner  with  winner,  we  have  got  a  satisfactory  dog, 
and  the  more  satisfactory  he  is,  the  more  is  he  like  the 
fox,  having  become  smaller  in  size,  finer  in  bone, 
and  more  compact  in  shape.  The  hunted  moulds  the 
hunter:  the  American  red  fox  is  undoubtedly  superior 
to  the  English  red  fox  in  speed,  endurance,  and 
stratagem,  and  he  has  made  the  American  dog 
superior.  The  principle  was  illustrated  when  old 
Lead  came  over  to  Cumberland;  for  he  was  rather 
small  and  compact,  his  hair  was  long  and  his  brush 
heavy,  though  his  coat  was  coal-black  except  for  a 
little  tan  about  the  face  and  eyes.  The  Virginia  red 
fox  had  already  fashioned  Lead." 

The  hounds  were  coming  back  now;  they  were  near 
when  the  music  ceased.  The  great  yellow  figure  of  a 
Walker  was  loping  toward  them  through  the  frost- 
tipped  sedge,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  his  thick 

140 


Fox-Hunting  in  Kentucky    * 

gray  hair  catching  the  first  sunlight.  The  General 
was  right;  the  trail  was  old,  and  it  was  lost.  As  we 
rode  across  the  field,  however,  an  old  hound  gave 
tongue.  Sharp,  quick  music  began,  and  ceased  just 
as  another  Walker  was  reaching  down  into  his  trousers' 
pocket  for  his  plug  of  tobacco. 

"  I  believe  that  was  a  rabbit,"  he  said.  "  I'm  going 
over  there  and  knock  old  Eock  in  the  head."  "With- 
out taking  his  hand  from  his  pocket,  he  touched  his 
horse,  and  the  animal  rose  in  his  tracks,  poised,  and 
leaped,  landing  on  a  slippery  bank.  The  plug  of 
tobacco  was  in  one  corner  of  the  rider's  mouth  when 
both  struck  the  road.  He  had  moved  in  his  saddle 
no  more  than  if  his  horse  had  stepped  over  a  log. 
Nothing  theatrical  was  intended.  The  utter  non- 
chalance of  the  performance  was  paralyzing.  He  did 
not  reach  old  Rock.  Over  to  the  right,  another  hound 
raised  so  significant  a  cry  that  Rock,  with  an  answer- 
ing bay,  went  for  him.  In  a  moment  they  were 
sweeping  around  a  knoll  to  the  right,  and  the  third 
Walker  turned  his  horse  through  the  sedge,  loping 
easily,  his  hat  still  in  his  hand,  a  mighty  picture  on 
horseback;  and  as  I  started  after  him,  I  saw  the 
fourth  brother  scramble  up  a  perpendicular  bank 
twice  the  length  of  his  horse — each  man  gone  accord- 
ing to  his  own  judgment.     I  followed  the  swinging 

141 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

black  hat,  and  caught  up,  and  we  halted  in  the  woods 
to  listen,  both  jerking  the  reins  to  keep  the  horses  from 
champing  their  bits.  One  peculiar,  deep,  musical 
tongue  rose  above  the  pack's  cry.  The  big  Walker 
stood  in  his  stirrup,  with  his  face  uplifted,  and  I  saw 
in  it  what  fox-hunting  means  to  the  Kentuckian. 
Had  he  been  looking  into  heaven,  his  face  could  not 
have  been  more  rapt. 

"  That's  Rock !  "  he  said,  breathlessly,  and  then 
he  started  through  the  woods.  He  weighed  over 
200,  and  was  six  feet  four.  A  hole  through  the 
woods  that  was  big  enough  for  him,  was,  I  thought, 
big  enough  for  me,  and  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to 
follow  him  half  an  hour,  anyhow.  My  memory  of 
that  ride  is  a  trifle  confused.  I  saw  the  big  yellow 
oilskin  and  the  thick  gray  hair  ahead  of  me,  whisking 
around  trees  and  stumps,  and  over  rocks  and  roots.  I 
heard  a  great  crashing  of  branches  and  a  clatter  of 
stones.  Every  jump  something  rapped  me  across  the 
breast  or  over  the  head ;  my  knees  grazed  trees  on  each 
side;  a  thorn  dug  into  my  face  not  far  from  one  eye; 
and  then  I  lay  down  on  my  horse's  neck  and  thought 
of  my  sins.  I  did  not  know  what  it  was  all  about, 
but  I  learned  when  I  dared  to  lift  my  head.  We 
had  been  running  for  a  little  hollow  between  the  hills 
to  see  the  fox  pass,  but  we  were  too  quick.     Several 

142 


Fox-Hunting  in  Kentucky 

hunters  had  crossed  the  trail  before  the  hounds,  and 
fox  and  scent  were  lost. 

"  You've  bu'sted  up  the  chase,"  said  a  hunter,  with 
deep  disgust. 

"  Who— we? "  said  the  Walker.  "  Why,  we  have 
just  been  riding  quietly  up  the  ridge,  haven't  we  ? " 
Quietly — that  was  his  idea  of  riding  quietly! 

I  told  the  General  about  that  ride,  and  the  General 
laughed.  "  That's  ^im,"  he  said,  with  ungram- 
matical  emphasis.  "  He's  fifty-three  now,  but  he's 
the  hardest  hunter  in  this  State  to  follow." 

We  had  to  end  the  chase  that  day,  and  we  went 
back  to  the  hotel,  early  in  the  afternoon,  so  disheart- 
ened that  the  General  threw  his  pride  and  his  hunting 
traditions  to  the  wind,  and  swore  with  a  beautiful  oath 
that  the  ladies  should  have  a  chase.  He  got  a  moun- 
taineer to  climb  a  mule  and  drag  a  coonskin  around 
the  little  valley.  The  natives  brought  in  their  dogs, 
and  entered  them  for  a  quart  of  whiskey.  The  music 
started,  and  Logan  was  allowed  to  let  out  his  noble 
length  for  exercise,  and  Patsy  Powell  slipped  her  leash 
and  got  away,  while  her  master  swore  persistently  that 
she  was  running  because  the  others  were — that  she 
scorned  the  scent  of  a  drag,  and  would  hardly  run  a 
gray  fox,  let  alone  the  skin  of  a  coon.  Logan  came  in 
ahead:  but  a  native  got  the  whiskey,  and  in  half  an 

143 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

hour  every  one  of  his  friends  owned  the  best  dog  in  the 
county. 

That  last  night,  after  a  game  of  blind-man's-buff,  we 
had  intersectional  toasts  and  congratulations,  and  wel- 
comes to  come  again.  The  conditions  had  all  been 
antagonistic.  It  was  too  early;  it  was  too  dry;  and 
there  were  many  other  reasons. 

The  man  from  the  Brunswick  Fur  Club  explained 
that  in  his  country  the  sportsmen  shot  the  foxes  be- 
cause the  hounds  could  not  catch  them  fast  enough. 
The  foxes  were  so  thick  up  there  that  the  people  could 
hardly  raise  a  Thanksgiving  turkey.  So  they  shot 
them  to  appease  the  farmers,  whom  they  had  to  fight 
annually  in  the  Legislature  to  prevent  them  from  hav- 
ing the  fox  exterminated  by  law  as  a  pest.  The 
Southern  sportsmen  were  glad  to  hear  that,  and  drank 
to  his  health,  and  argued  that  the  solution  of  the  diffi- 
culty was  to  try  more  dogs  like  Logan.  Then  every- 
body discussed  phases  and  problems  of  the  chase  that 
emphasized  the  peculiarities  of  hunting  in  the  South 
— how  the  hounds,  like  the  race-horse,  have  grown 
lighter,  more  rangy  in  form,  smaller,  solider  in  bone ; 
and  how,  in  spite  of  the  increase  in  speed,  they  yet 
win  by  bottom,  rather  than  by  speed;  that  it  was, 
after  all,  a  question  of  the  condition  of  the  fox, 
whether  he  was  gorged  or  not;  that  rough  ground 

144 


Fox-Hunting  in  Kentucky 

being  favorable  to  the  fox,  more  kills  were  made  south 
of  Virginia,  because  the  ground  is  favorable  to  the 
hound ;  how,  since  the  war,  the  breeding  has  been  tow- 
ard better  feet,  rougher  hair,  better  brush,  gameness, 
nose,  and  speed.  Yet  the  Walkers  say  that  hounds 
are  not  as  good  as  they  were  twenty  years  ago;  that 
the  English  dogs  are  tougher  and  have  more  bottom 
and  less  nose  and  speed;  that  the  half  thorough-bred 
makes  the  best  hunter,  the  thorough-bred  being  too 
high-strung,  too  fretful;  that  the  right  proportion  of 
English  blood  in  the  hound  is  one-fourth.  And 
everybody  wondered  why  some  Kentucky  horseman 
has  never  bred  hunters  for  the  Eastern  market,  argu- 
ing that  the  Kentucky  hunter  should  excel,  as  the 
race-horse  and  the  trotter  have  excelled. 

One  and  another  told  how  a  fox  will  avoid  a  corn- 
field, because  a  muddy  tail  impedes  him;  how  he  will 
swim  a  creek  simply  to  wash  it  out;  and  how,  in 
Florida,  he  will  swim  a  river  to  escape  the  dogs, 
knowing  that  they  will  not  follow  him  through  fear  of 
the  alligators.  How  he  will  turn  up-stream  when  he 
is  not  hard  pressed,  and  down-stream  when  he  is. 
Does  the  red  fox  actually  kill  out  the  gray  ?  One  man 
had  come  on  the  fresh-bitten  carcass  of  a  gray  in  the 
snow,  and,  about  it,  there  was  not  another  sign  than  the 
track  of  a  red  fox.     Or,  does  the  gray  disappear  be- 

145 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

cause  he  is  more  easily  caught,  or  does  an  instinctive 
terror  of  the  red  drive  the  gray  off  to  other  hunting- 
grounds?  A  hunter  declared  that  a  full-grown  gray 
would  show  mortal  terror  of  a  red  cub.  Is  the  red 
fox  a  coward,  or  is  he  the  only  sporting  member  of  the 
animal  kingdom?  Does  he  really  enjoy  the  chase? 
Many  had  seen  him  climb  a  stump,  or  fence,  to  look 
back  and  listen  to  the  music.  One  man  claimed  that 
he  often  doubled  out  of  curiosity  to  see  where  the  dogs 
were,  though  another  had  seen  a  fox  go  through  the 
window  of  a  deserted  house,  through  the  floor,  and  out 
under  it ;  and  in  doubling,  go  through  it  just  the  other 
way.  He  always  did  that,  and  that  did  not  look  like 
curiosity.  Several  had  known  a  fox,  after  the  hounds 
had  given  up  the  chase  and  turned  homeward,  to  turn, 
too,  and  run  past  the  dogs  with  a  plain  challenge  to  try 
it  again.  Another  said  he  had  known  a  fox  to  run 
till  tired,  and  then  let  a  fresh  fox  take  up  the  trail, 
and  lead  the  hounds  on  while  he  rested  in  a  thicket 
twenty  yards  away.  All  except  one  hunter  had 
known  foxes  to  run  past  their  holes  several  times  dur- 
ing the  chase,  and  often  to  be  caught  within  one  or 
two  hundred  yards  of  a  den.  One  opinion  was  that  a 
fox  would  not  go  into  his  hole  because  he  was  too  hot 
and  would  smother;  another  said  he  was  game.  But 
the  doubting  hunter,  an  old  gentleman  who  was  nearly 

146 


Fox-Hunting  in  Kentucky 

seventy,  and  who  had  kept  close  behind  the  hounds  on 
a  big  sorrel,  with  an  arm  that  had  been  thrown  out  of 
place  at  the  shoulder  only  the  night  before,  declared 
that  most  fox-stories  were  moonshine,  that  the  fox  was 
a  sneaking  little  coward,  and  would  make  for  a  hole 
as  soon  as  he  heard  a  dog  bark.  There  was  one  man 
who  knew  another  man  who  had  seen  a  strange  thing. 
All  the  others  had  heard  of  it,  and  many  believed  it= 
A  fox,  hard  pressed,  had  turned,  and,  with  every 
bristle  thrown  forward,  had  run  back,  squealing 
piteously,  into  the  jaws  of  the  pack. 

"  That's  a  bluff  game,"  said  the  old  hunter. 

"  No,"  said  another;  "  he  knew  that  his  end  had 
come,  and  he  went  to  meet  it  with  his  colors  flying,  like 
the  dead-game  little  sport  that  he  is." 


147 


To  the  Breaks  of  Sandy 


To  the  Breaks  of  Sandy 

DOWN"  in  the  southwestern  corner  of  Virginia, 
and  just  over  the  Kentucky  line,  are  the  Gap 
and  "  The  Gap  " — the  one  made  by  nature 
and  the  other  by  man.  One  is  a  ragged  gash  down 
through  the  Cumberland  Mountains,  from  peak  to 
water  level;  and  the  other  is  a  new  little,  queer  little 
town,  on  a  pretty  plateau  which  is  girdled  by  two  run- 
ning streams  that  loop  and  come  together  like  the 
framework  of  an  ancient  lute.  ISTortheast  the  range 
runs,  unbroken  by  nature  and  undisturbed  by  man, 
until  it  crumbles  at  the  Breaks  of  Sandy,  seventy 
miles  away.  There  the  bass  leaps  from  rushing 
waters,  and  there,  as  nowhere  else  this  side  of  the 
Rockies,  is  the  face  of  nature  wild  and  shy. 

It  was  midsummer,  the  hour  was  noon,  and  we  were 
bound  for  the  Breaks  of  Sandy,  seventy  miles  away. 

No  similar  aggregate  of  man,  trap,  and  beast  had 
ever  before  penetrated  those  mountain  wilds.  The 
wagon  was  high-seated  and  the  team  was  spiked,  with 
Hock    and    Ridghng    as   wheel    horses,    Diavolo    as 

151 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

leader,  and  Dollj,  a  half-tliorougli-bred,  galloping  be- 
hind under  Sam,  tlie  black  cook,  and  a  wild  Western 
saddle,  with  high  pommels,  heavily  hooded  stirrups, 
hand-worked  leather,  and  multitudinous  straps  and 
shaking  rawhide  strings;  and  running  alongside, 
Tiger,  bull-terrier.  Any  man  who  was  at  Andover, 
Cornell,  or  Harvard  during  certain  years  will,  if  he 
sees  these  lines,  remember  Tiger. 

As  for  the  men — there  was  Josh,  ex-captain  of  a 
Kentucky  Horse  Guard,  ex-captain  of  the  volunteer 
police  force  back  at  "  The  Gap,"  and,  like  Henry 
Clay,  always  captain  whenever  and  wherever  there 
was  anything  to  be  done  and  more  than  one  man  was 
needed  to  do  it;  now,  one  of  the  later-day  pioneers 
who  went  back  over  the  Cumberland,  not  many  years 
ago,  to  reclaim  a  certain  wild  little  corner  of  old  Vir- 
ginia, and  then,  as  now,  the  first  man  and  the  leading 
lawyer  of  the  same.  There  was  another  Kentuckian, 
fresh  from  the  Blue-grass — Little  Willie,  as  he  was 
styled  on  this  trip — being  six  feet  three  in  his 
bare  feet,  carrying  190  pounds  of  bone  and  muscle; 
champion  heavy-weight  with  his  fists  in  college 
(he  could  never  get  anybody  to  fight  with  him), 
centre-rush  in  foot-ball,  with  this  grewsome  record 
of  broken  bones:  collar-bone,  one  leg,  one  knee 
three  times,  and  three  teeth  smashed — smashed  by 

152 


To  the  Breaks  of  Sandy- 
biting  through  his  nose  guard  against  each  other 
when  he  set  his  jaws  to  break  through  a  hostile  line. 
Also,  "Willie  was  ex-bugler  of  a  military  school,  singer 
of  coon  songs  unrivalled,  and  with  other  accomplish- 
ments for  which  there  is  no  space  here  to  record. 
There  was  Dan,  boy-manager  of  a  mighty  coal  com- 
pany, good  fellow,  and  of  importance  to  the  dog-lover 
as  the  master  of  Tiger.  I  include  Tiger  here,  be- 
cause he  was  so  little  less  than  human.  There  are  no 
words  to  describe  Tiger.  He  was  prepared  for  Yale 
at  Andover,  went  to  Cornell  in  a  pet,  took  a  post-grad- 
uate course  at  Harvard,  and,  getting  indifference  and 
world-weariness  there,  followed  his  master  to  pioneer 
in  the  Cumberland.  Tiger  has  a  white  collar,  white- 
tipped  tail,  white  feet;  his  body  is  short,  strong,  close- 
knit,  tawny,  ringed;  and  his  peculiar  distinctions  are 
intelligence,  character,  magnetism.  All  through  the 
mountains  Tiger  has  run  his  fifty  miles  a  day  behind 
Dolly,  the  thorough-bred ;  so  that,  in  a  radius  of  a  hun- 
dred miles,  there  is  nobody  who  does  not  know  that 
dog.  Still,  he  never  walks  unless  it  is  necessary,  and 
his  particular  oscillation  is  between  the  mines  and 
"  The  Gap,"  ten  miles  apart.  Being  a  coal  magnate, 
he  has  an  annual  pass  and  he  always  takes  the  train — 
alone,  if  he  pleases — changing  cars  three  times  and 
paying   no   attention,   until   his   stations   are  called. 

153 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

Sometimes  he  is  too  weary  to  go  to  a  station,  so  he  sits 
down  on  the  track  and  waits  for  the  train.  I  have 
known  the  engineer  of  a  heavily  laden  freight -train  to 
slacken  up  when  he  saw  Tiger  trotting  ahead  between 
the  rails,  and  stop  to  take  him  aboard,  did  Tiger  but 
nod  on  him.  I  have  never  seen  man,  woman,  or  child, 
of  respectable  antecedents,  whom  that  dog  didn't  love, 
and  nobody,  regardless  of  antecedents,  who  didn't 
love  that  dog. 

Such,  we  rattled  out  of  "  The  Gap "  that  mid- 
summer noon.  ISTorthward,  through  the  Gap,  a  cloud 
of  dun  smoke  hung  over  the  Hades  of  coke  ovens  that 
Dan  had  planted  in  the  hills.  On  the  right  was  the 
Ridge,  heavy  with  beds  of  ore.  Straight  ahead  was  a 
furnace,  from  which  the  coke  rose  as  pale-blue  smoke 
and  the  ore  gave  out  a  stream  of  molten  iron.  Farther 
on,  mountains  to  the  right  and  mountains  to  the  left 
came  together  at  a  little  gap,  and  toward  that  point  we 
rattled  up  Powell's  Valley — smiling  back  at  the  sun; 
furnace,  ore-mine,  coke-cloud,  and  other  ugly  signs  of 
civilization  dropping  behind  us  fast,  and  our  eyes  set 
toward  one  green  lovely  spot  that  was  a  shrine  of 
things  primeval. 

In  the  wagon  we  had  a  tent,  and  things  to  eat,  and 
a  wooden  box  that  looked  like  a  typewriter  case, 
tmder  lock  and  key,  and  eloquently  inscribed: 

154 


To  the  Breaks  of  Sandy 

"  Glass,  2  gal."  It  is  a  great  way  to  carry  the 
indispensable — in  a  wagon — and  I  recommend  it  to 
fishermen. 

At  the  foot  of  the  first  mountain  was  a  spring  and 
we  stopped  to  water  the  horses  and  unlock  that  case. 
Twenty  yards  above,  and  to  one  side  of  the  road,  a 
mountaineer  was  hanging  over  the  fence,  looking 
down  at  us. 

"  Have  a  drink? "  said  Josh. 

"  Yes,"  he  drawled,  "  if  ye'll  fetch  it  up." 

"  Come  an'  get  it,"  said  Josh,  shortly. 

"  Are  you  sick?  "  I  asked. 

"  Sort  o'  puny." 

We  drank. 

"  Have  a  drink?  "  said  Josh  once  more. 

"  If  ye'll  fetch  it  up." 

Josh  drove  the  cork  home  with  the  muscular  base 
of  his  thumb. 

"  I'm  damned  if  I  do.'* 

Dan  whistled  to  Diavolo,  and  we  speculated.  It 
was  queer  conduct  in  the  mountaineer — why  didn't 
he  come  down? 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Dan. 

"  He  really  came  down  for  a  drink,"  I  said,  know- 
ing the  mountaineer's  independence,  "  and  he  wanted 
to  prove  to  himself  and  to  us  that  he  didn't." 

155 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

"  A  smart  Alec,"  said  Little  Willie. 

"  A  plain  damn  fool,"  said  Josh. 

Half  an  hour  later  we  were  on  top  of  the  moun- 
tain, in  the  little  gap  where  the  mountains  came 
together.  Below  us  the  valley  started  on  its  long,  rich 
sweep  southward,  and  beyond  were  the  grim  shoulders 
of  Black  Mountains,  which  we  were  to  brush  now  and 
then  on  our  way  to  the  "  Breaks." 

There  Dan  put  Tiger  out  of  the  wagon  and  made 
him  walk.  After  three  plaintive  whines  to  his  mas- 
ter to  show  cause  for  such  an  outrage,  Tiger  dropped 
nose  and  eyes  to  the  ground  and  jogged  along  with 
such  human  sullenness  that  Willie  was  led  to  speak  to 
him.  Tiger  paid  no  attention.  I  called  him  and 
Dan  called  him.  Tiger  never  so  much  as  lifted  eye 
or  ear,  and  Willie  watched  him,  wondering. 

"  Why,  that  dog's  got  a  grouch,"  he  said  at  last, 
delightedly.  "  I  tell  you  he's  got  a  grouch."  It  was 
Willie's  first  observation  of  Tiger.  Of  course  he  had 
a  "  grouch  "  as  distinctly  as  a  child  who  is  old  enough 
to  show  petulance  with  dignity.  And  having  made 
us  feel  sufficiently  mean,  Tiger  dropped  quite  behind, 
as  though  to  say :  "  I'm  gettin'  kind  o'  tired  o'  this. 
Now  '  It's  come  here.  Tiger,'  and  '  Stick  in  the  mud, 
Tiger,'  and  straightway  again,  '  Tiger,  come  here.'  I 
don't  like  it.     I'd  go  home  if  it  weren't  for  Dolly  and 

156 


To  the  Breaks  of  Sandy 

this  nigger  here,  whom  I  reckon  I've  got  to  watch. 
But  I'll  stick  in  the  mud."     And  he  did. 

At  dusk  we  passed  through  Norton,  where  Talt 
Hall,  desperado,  killed  his  thirteenth  and  last  man, 
and  on  along  a  rocky,  muddy,  Stygian-black  road 
to  Wise  Court-house,  where  our  police  guard  from 
"  The  Gap,"  with  Josh  as  captain,  guarded  Talt  for 
one  month  to  keep  his  Kentucky  clan  from  rescuing 
him.  And  there  we  told  Dan  and  the  big  Ken- 
tuckian  how  banker,  broker,  lawyer,  and  doctor  left 
his  business  and  his  home,  cut  port-holes  in  the  court- 
house, put  the  town  under  martial  law,  and,  with 
twenty  men  with  Winchesters  in  the  rude  box  that 
enclosed  the  scaffold,  and  a  cordon  of  a  hundred  more 
in  a  circle  outside,  to  keep  back  a  thousand  mountain- 
eers, thus  made  possible  the  first  hanging  that  the 
county  had  ever  known.  And  how,  later,  in  the  same 
way  we  hung  old  Doc  Taylor,  Hall's  enemy — Sweden- 
borgian  preacher,  herb  doctor,  revenue  officer,  and  des- 
perado— the  "  Red  Fox  of  the  Mountains." 

The  two  listeners  were  much  interested,  for,  in  truth, 
that  police  guard  of  gentlemen  who  hewed  strictly  to 
the  line  of  the  law,  who  patrolled  the  streets  of  "  The 
Gap  "  with  billy,  whistle,  and  pistol,  knocking  down 
toughs,  lugging  them  to  the  calaboose,  appearing  in 
court  against  them  next  morning,  and  maintaining  a 

157 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

fund  for  the  prosecution  of  them  in  the  higher  courts, 
was  as  unique  and  successful  an  experiment  in  civiliza- 
tion as  any  borderland  has  ever  known. 

'Next  day  we  ran  the  crests  of  long  ridges  and 
struck  good  roads,  and  it  was  then  that  we  spiked 
Kock  and  Ridgling,  with  Diavolo  as  leader. 

"  Tool  'em!  "  shouted  Willie,  and  we  "  tooled  " 
joyously.  A  coach^horn  was  all  that  we  lacked,  and 
we  did  not  lack  that  long.  Willie  evolved  one  from 
his  unaided  throat,  in  some  mysterious  way  that  he 
could  not  explain,  but  he  did  the  tooting  about  as  well 
as  it  is  ever  done  with  a  horn.  It  was  hot,  and  the 
natives  stared.  They  took  us  for  the  advance-guard 
of  a  circus. 

"  Where  are  you  goin'  to  show? "  they  shouted. 
We  crossed  ridges,  too,  tooling  recklessly  about  the 
edges  of  precipices  and  along  roads  scarcely  wide 
enough  for  one  wagon — Dan  swinging  to  the  brake 
with  one  hand  and  holding  Josh  in  the  driver's  seat 
with  the  other — Willie  and  I  speculating,  meanwhile, 
how  much  higher  the  hind  wheel  could  go  from  the 
ground  before  the  wagon  would  overturn.  It  was 
great  fun,  and  dangerous. 

"  Hank  Monks  is  not  in  it,"  said  Willie. 

The  brake  required  both  of  Dan's  hands  just 
then  and  Josh  flew  out  into  space  and  landed  on 

158 


To  the  Breaks  of  Sandy 

his  shoulder,  some  ten  feet  down  the  mountain,  un- 
hurt. 

Rock,  though  it  was  his  first  work  under  harness, 
was  steady  as  a  plough-horse.  Ridgling  now  and  then 
would  snort  and  plunge  and  paw,  getting  one  foot  over 
the  wagon  tongue.  Diavolo,  like  his  master,  was  a 
born  leader,  or  we  should  have  had  trouble  indeed. 

That  night  we  struck  another  county-seat,  where 
the  court-house  had  been  a  brick  bone  of  contention 
for  many,  many  years — two  localities  claiming  the 
elsewhere  undisputed  honor,  for  the  reason  that  they 
alone  had  the  only  two  level  acres  in  the  county  on 
which  a  court-house  could  stand.  A  bitter  fight  it 
was,  and  they  do  say  that  not  many  years  ago,  in  a 
similar  conflict,  the  opposing  factions  met  to  de- 
cide the  question  with  fist  and  skull — 150  picked 
men  on  each  side — a  direct  and  curious  survival  of 
the  ancient  wager  of  battle.  The  women  prevented 
the  fight.  Over  in  Kentucky  there  would  have  been 
a  bloody  feud.  At  that  town  we  had  but  fitful  sleep. 
Certain  little  demons  of  the  dark,  which  shall  be 
nameless,  marked  us,  as  they  always  mark  fresh  vic- 
tims, for  their  own. 

"  I'll  bet  they  look  over  the  register  every  night," 
said  Willie — baring  a  red-splotched  brawny  arm  next 
morning. 

159 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

"  Wingless  victory !  "  he  said,  further. 

And  then  on.  Wilder  and  ever  wilder,  next  day, 
grew  the  hills  and  woods  and  the  slitting  chasms  be- 
tween them.  First  one  hind  wheel  dished — we  braced 
it  with  hickory  saplings.  Then  the  other — we  braced 
that.  The  harness  broke — Dan  mended  that.  A 
horse  cast  a  shoe — Josh  shod  him  then  and  there. 
These  two  were  always  tinkering,  and  were  happy. 
Inefficiency  made  AYillie  and  me  miserable — it  was 
plain  that  we  were  to  be  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers 
of  water  on  that  trip,  and  we  were. 

And  still  wilder  and  ever  wilder  was  the  face  of 
Nature,  which  turned  primeval — turned  Greek. 
Willie  swore  he  could  see  the  fleeting  shapes  of 
nymphs  in  the  dancing  sunlight  and  shadows  under 
the  beeches.  Where  the  cane-rushes  shivered  and 
shook  along  the  bank  of  a  creek,  it  was  a  satyr  chasing 
a  dryad  through  them;  and  once — it  may  have  been 
the  tinkle  of  water — but  I  was  sure  I  heard  her  laugh 
float  from  a  dark  little  ravine  high  above,  where  she 
had  fled  to  hide.  No  wonder!  We  were  approach- 
ing the  most  isolated  spot,  perhaps,  this  side  of  the 
Eockies.  If  this  be  hard  to  believe,  listen.  Once  we 
stopped  at  a  cabin,  and  Sam,  the  black  cook,  went  in 
for  a  drink  of  water.  A  little  girl  saw  him  and  was 
thrown  almost  into  convulsions  of  terror.     She  had 

1 60 


To  the  Breaks  of  Sandy 

never  seen  a  negro  before.  Her  mother  had  told  her, 
doubtless,  that  the  bad  man  would  get  her  some  day 
and  she  thought  Sam  was  the  devil  and  that  he  had 
come  for  her.  And  this  in  Virginia.  I  knew  there 
were  many  white  people  in  Virginia,  and  all  through- 
out the  Cumberland,  who  had  never  seen  a  black  man, 
and  why  they  hate  him  as  they  do  has  always  been  a 
mystery,  especially  as  they  often  grant  him  social 
equality,  even  to  the  point  of  eating  at  the  same  table 
with  him,  though  the  mountaineer  who  establishes 
certain  relations  with  the  race  that  is  still  tolerated 
in  the  South,  brings  himself  into  lasting  disgrace. 
Perhaps  the  hostility  reaches  back  to  the  time  when 
the  poor  white  saw  him  a  fatal  enemy,  as  a  slave,  to  the 
white  man  who  must  work  with  his  hands.  And  yet, 
to  say  that  this  competition  with  the  black  man,  along 
with  a  hatred  of  his  aristocratic  master,  was  the  reason 
for  the  universal  Union  sentiment  of  the  Southern 
mountaineer  during  the  war  is  absurd.  Competition 
ceased  nearly  a  century  ago.  Negro  and  aristocrat 
were  forgotten — were  long  unknown.  No  historian 
seems  to  have  guessed  that  the  mountaineer  was  loyal 
because  of  1776.  The  fight  for  the  old  flag  in  1812 
and  the  Mexican  War  helped,  but  1776  was  enough  to 
keep  him  loyal  to  this  day;  for  to-day,  in  life,  charac- 
ter, customs,  speech,  and  conviction,  he  is  practically 

i6i 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

what  he  was  then.  But  a  change  is  coming  now,  and 
down  in  a  little  hollow  we  saw,  suddenly,  a  startling 
sign — a  frame  house  with  an  upper  balcony,  and, 
moving  along  that  balcony,  a  tall  figure  in  a  pink  un- 
girded  Mother  Hubbard.  And,  mother  of  all  that  is 
modern,  we  saw  against  the  doorway  below  her — a 
bicycle.  We  took  dinner  there  and  the  girl  gave  me 
her  card.     It  read: 

AMANDA  TOLLIVER, 

EXECUTEIX    TO    JOSIAH    TOLLIVEB. 

Only  that  was  not  her  name.  She  owned  coal  lands, 
was  a  woman  of  judgment  and  business,  and  realizing 
that  she  could  not  develop  them  alone,  had  advertised 
for  a  partner  in  coal,  and,  I  was  told,  in  love  as  well. 
Anyhow  there  were  numerous  pictures  of  young  men 
around,  and  I  have  a  faint  suspicion  that  as  we  swung 
over  the  brow  of  the  hill,  we  might  have  been  taken 
for  suitors  four.  She  had  been  to  school  at  the 
county-seat  where  we  spent  the  first  night,  and  had 
thus  swung  into  the  stream  of  Progress.  She  had  live 
gold  fish  in  a  glass  tank  and  jugs  with  plants  growing 
out  of  the  mouth  and  out  of  holes  in  the  sides.  And 
she  had  a  carpet  in  the  parlor  and  fire-screens  of  red 
calico  and  red  plush  albums,  a  birthday  book,  and,  of 

162 


To  the  Breaks  of  Sandy 

course,  a  cottage  organ.  It  was  all  prophetic,  I  sup- 
pose, and  the  inevitable  American  way  toward  higher 
things ;  and  it  was  at  once  sad  and  hopeful. 

Just  over  the  hill,  humanity  disappeared  again  and 
Nature  turned  primeval — turned  Greek  again.  And 
again  nymphs  and  river  gods  began  their  play. 
Pretty  soon  a  dryad  took  human  shape  in  some  black- 
berry bushes,  and  Little  Willie  proceeded  to  take 
mythological  shape  as  a  faun.  We  modems  jollied 
him  on  the  metamorphosis. 

The  Breaks  were  just  ahead.  Somewhere  through 
the  green  thickness  of  poplar,  oak,  and  maple,  the 
river  lashed  and  boiled  between  gray  bowlders,  eddied 
and  danced  and  laughed  through  deep  pools,  or  leaped 
in  waves  over  long  riffles,  and  we  turned  toward  the 
low,  far  sound  of  its  waters.  A  slip  of  a  bare-footed 
girl  stepped  from  the  bushes  and  ran  down  the  wood- 
path,  and  Willie  checked  her  to  engage  in  unnecessary 
small  talk  and  to  ask  questions  whereof  he  knew  the 
answers  as  well  as  she — ^all  leading  to  the  final  one. 

"  What's  your  name?  "  Unlike  her  hill-sisters,  the 
girl  was  not  shy. 

"  MeHssa." 

Shades  of  Hymettus,  but  it  was  fitting.  There 
were  blackberry  stains  about  her  red  lips.  Her  eyes 
had  the  gloom  of  deep  woods  and  shone  from  the  dark- 

163 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

ness  of  her  tumbled  hair — tumbled  it  was,  like  an  oat- 
field  I  had  seen  that  morning  after  a  wind  and  rain 
storm  that  swept  it  all  night  long. 

"Melissa!"  Willie  said  softly,  once,  twice,  three 
times;  and  his  throat  gurgled  with  poetic  delight  in 
the  maid  and  the  name.  I  think  he  would  have  said 
"  Prithee  "  and  addressed  her  some  more,  but  just 
then  a  homespun  mother  veered  about  the  corner  of  a 
log  cabin,  and  Melissa  fled.  Willie  thought  he  had 
scared  her. 

"  On  the  way  to  the  Breaks,"  he  said — "  my  first." 
We  hurried  the  stricken  youth  on  and  pitched  camp 
below  the  cabin,  and  on  a  minnow  branch  that  slipped 
past  low  willows  and  under  rhododendrons  and 
dropped  in  happy  water-falls  into  the  Breaks,  where 
began  a  vertical  turreted  ledge,  hundreds  of  feet  high, 
that  ran  majestically  on — miles  on. 

There  Willie  at  once  developed  unwonted  vim. 
We  needed  milk  and  butter  and  eggs,  so  he  left  me  to 
hew  wood  and  draw  water  while  he  strode  back  to  the 
cabin,  and  Melissa  after  them;  and  he  made  contracts 
for  the  same  daily — he  would  go  for  them  himself — 
and  hired  all  Melissa's  little  brothers  and  sisters  to  pick 
blackberries  for  us. 

Then  came  the  first  supper  in  the  woods  and 
draughts  from  the  typewriter  case,  the  label  of  which 

164 


To  the  Breaks  of  Sandy- 
Willie  proceeded  to  alter,  because  the  level  of  the 
fluid  was  sinking,  and  as  a  tribute  to  Melissa. 

"  Glass— 1  gal." 

It  takes  little  to  make  humor  in  the  woods.  Fol- 
lowed sweet  pipes  under  the  stars,  thickening  multi- 
tudinously  straight  overhead,  where  alone  we  could 
see  them. 

Something  was  troubling  Josh  that  night  and  I 
could  see  that  he  hesitated  about  delivering  himself — 
but  he  did. 

"  Have  you  fellows — er — ever  noticed — er — that 
when  men  get  out  in  the  woods  they — er — at  once 
begin  to  swear?"  Each  one  of  us  had  noticed  that 
fact.  Josh  looked  severely  at  me  and  severely  at  Dan 
and  at  Willie — not  observing  that  we  were  looking 
severely  at  him. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  with  characteristic  decision,  "  I 
think  you  ought  to  stop  it." 

There  was  a  triangular  howl  of  derision. 

"We?  "I  said. 

"We!"  said  Dan. 

"Fe./"  yelled  Willie. 

Josh  laughed  —  he  had  not  heard  the  rattling 
fire  of  picturesque  expletives  that  he  had  been  turn- 
ing loose  on  Rock  and  Ridgling  since  we  left  the 
Gap. 

165 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

However,  we  each  agreed  to  be  watchful — of  the 
others. 

By  the  by,  Willie  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe 
and  picked  up  a  pail — the  mother's  pail  in  which  he 
had  brought  the  milk  down  to  camp. 

"  I  reckon  they'll  need  this,"  he  said,  thoughtfully. 
"  Don't  you  think  they'll  need  this? "  I  was  sure 
they  would,  and  as  Willie's  colossal  shoulders  disap- 
peared through  the  bushes  we  chuckled,  and  at  the  fire 
Sam,  the  black  cook,  snickered  respectfully.  Willie 
did  not  know  the  lark  habits  of  the  mountaineer.  We 
could  have  told  him  that  Melissa  was  in  bed,  but  we 
wickedly  didn't.  He  was  soon  back,  and  looking 
glum.     We  chuckled  some  more. 

That  night  a  snake  ran  across  my  breast — I  sup- 
pose it  was  a  snake — a  toad  beat  a  tattoo  on  Willie's 
broad  chest,  a  horse  got  tangled  in  the  guy-ropes.  Josh 
and  Dan  swore  sleepily,  and  long  before  the  sun 
flashed  down  into  our  eyes,  a  mountaineer,  Melissa's 
black-headed  sire,  brought  us  minnows  which  he  had 
insisted  on  catching  without  help.  Willie  wondered 
at  his  anxious  spirit  of  lonely  accommodation,  but  it 
was  no  secret  to  the  rest  of  us.  The  chances  were 
that  he  was  a  moonshiner,  and  that  he  had  a  "  still " 
within  a  mile  of  our  camp — perhaps  within  a  hundred 
yards;  for  moonshine  stills  are  always  located  on  little 

i66 


To  the  Breaks  of  Sandy- 
running  streams  like  the  one  into  which  we  dipped  our 
heads  that  morning. 

After  breakfast,  we  went  down  that  shaded  little 
stream  into  the  Breaks,  where,  aeons  ago,  the  majestic 
Cumberland  met  its  volcanic  conqueror,  and,  after  a 
heaving  conflict,  was  tumbled  head  and  shoulders  to 
the  lower  earth,  to  let  the  pent-up  waters  rush  through 
its  shattered  ribs,  and  where  the  Big  Sandy  grinds 
through  them  to-day,  with  a  roar  of  freedom  that  once 
must  have  shaken  the  stars.  It  was  ideal — sun,  wind, 
rock,  and  stream.  The  water  was  a  bit  milky;  there 
were  eddies  and  pools,  in  sunlight  and  in  shadow,  and 
our  bait,  for  a  wonder,  was  perfect — chubs,  active 
cold-water  chubs  and  military  minnows — sucker- 
shaped  little  fellows,  with  one  brilliant  crimson  streak 
from  gill  to  base  of  tail.  And  we  did  steady,  faithful 
work — all  of  us — including  Tiger,  who,  as  Willie  said, 
was  a  "  fisher-dog  to  beat  the  band."  But  is  there 
any  older  and  sadder  tale  for  the  sportsman  than  to 
learn,  when  he  has  reached  one  happy  hunting-ground, 
that  the  game  is  on  another,  miles  away?  Thus  the 
Indian's  idea  of  heaven  sprang !  For  years  and  years 
Josh  and  I  had  been  planning  to  get  to  the  Breaks. 
For  years  we  had  fished  the  three  forks  of  the  Cum- 
berland, over  in  Kentucky,  with  brilliant  success,  and 
the  man  who  had  been  to  the  Breaks  always  smiled 

167 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

indulgently  when  we  told  onr  tales,  and  told,  in  an- 
swer, the  marvellous  things  possible  in  the  wonderful 
Breaks.  Now  we  were  at  the  Breaks,  and  no  sooner 
there  than  we  were  ready,  in  great  disgust,  to  get 
away.  We  investigated.  There  had  been  a  drought, 
two  years  before,  and  the  mountaineers  had  sledged 
the  bass  under  the  rocks  and  had  slaughtered  them. 
There  had  been  saw-mills  up  the  river  and  up  its  tribu- 
taries, and  there  had  been  dynamiting.  We  found 
catfish  a-plenty,  but  we  were  not  after  catfish.  We 
wanted  that  king  of  mountain  waters,  the  black  bass, 
and  we  wanted  him  to  run  from  one  pound  to  five 
pounds  in  weight  and  to  fight,  like  the  devil  that  he 
is,  in  the  clear  cold  waters  of  the  Cumberland. 
Xobody  showed  disappointment  more  bitter  than 
Tiger.  To  say  that  Tiger  was  eager  and  expectant  is 
to  underrate  that  game  little  sport's  intelligence  and 
his  power  to  catch  moods  from  his  master.  At  first 
he  sat  on  the  rocks,  with  every  shining  tooth  in  his 
head  a  finished  cameo  of  expectant  delight,  and  he 
watched  the  lines  shaking  in  the  eddies  as  he  would 
watch  a  hole  for  a  rat,  or  another  dog  for  a  fight. 
When  the  line  started  cutting  through  the  water  and 
the  musical  hum  of  the  reel  rose,  Tiger  knew  as  well  as 
his  master  just  what  was  happening. 

''  Let  him  run,  Dan,"  he  would  gurgle,  delightedly. 
i68 


At  the  Breaks. 


To  the  Breaks  of  Sandy 

We  all  knew  plainly  that  that  was  what  he  said. 
"  Give  him  plenty  of  line.  Don't  strike  yet — not  yet. 
Don't  you  know  that  he's  just  running  for  a  rock? 
Now  he's  swallowing  the  minnow — head  first.  Off 
he  goes  again — now's  your  time,  man,  now — ^wow!  " 

"When  the  strike  came  and  the  line  got  taut  and  the 
rod  bent,  Tiger  would  begin  to  leap  and  bark  at  the 
water's  edge.  As  Dan  reeled  in  and  the  fish  would 
flash  into  the  air,  Tiger  would  get  frantic.  When  his 
master  played  a  bass  and  the  fish  cut  darting  circles 
forward  and  back,  with  the  tip  of  the  rod  as  a  centre 
for  geometrical  evolutions,  Tiger  would  have  sprung 
into  the  water,  if  he  had  not  known  better.  And 
when  the  bass  was  on  the  rocks.  Tiger  sprang  for  him 
and  brought  him  to  his  master,  avoiding  the  hook  as 
a  wary  lad  will  look  out  for  the  sharp  horns  of  a  mud- 
cat.  But  the  bass  were  all  little  fellows,  and  Tiger 
gurgled  his  disgust  most  plainly. 

That  night,  Josh  and  I  comforted  ourselves,  and 
made  Dan  and  Willie  unhappy,  with  tales  of  what  we 
had  done  in  the  waters  of  the  Cumberland — sixty  bass 
in  one  day — four  four-pounders  in  two  hours,  not  to 
mention  one  little  whale  that  drew  the  scales  down  to 
the  five-pound  notch  three  hours  after  I  had  him  from 
the  water.  We  recalled — he  and  I — how  we  had 
paddled,  dragged,  and  Hfted  a  clumsy  canoe,  for  four 

169 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

days,  down  the  wild  and  beautiful  Clinch  (sometimes 
we  had  to  go  ahead  and  build  canals  through  the  rip- 
ples), shooting  happy,  blood-stirring  rapids,  but  catch- 
ing no  fish,  and  how,  down  that  river,  we  had  foolishly 
done  it  again.  This  was  the  third  time  we  had  been 
enticed  away  from  the  Cumberland,  and  then  and 
there  we  resolved  to  run  after  the  gods  of  strange 
streams  no  more.  Fish  stories  followed.  Dan  re- 
called how  Cecil  Rhodes  got  his  start  in  South  Africa, 
illustrating  thereby  the  speed  of  the  shark.  Rhodes 
was  poor,  but  he  brought  to  a  speculator  news  of  the 
Franco-Prussian  War  in  a  London  newspaper  of  a  date 
five  days  later  than  the  speculator's  mail.  The  two 
got  a  corner  on  some  commodity  and  made  large 
money.  Rhodes  had  got  his  paper  from  the  belly  of 
a  shore-cast  shark  that  had  beaten  the  mail  steamer 
by  five  round  days.  That  was  good,  and  Willie 
thereupon  told  a  tale  that  he  knew  to  be  true. 

"  You  know  how  rapidly  a  bass  grows? " 

We  did  not  know. 

"  You  know  how  a  bass  will  use  in  the  same  hole 
year  after  year? " 

That  we  did  know. 

"  Well,  I  caught  a  yearling  once,  and  I  bet  a  man 
that  he  would  grow  six  inches  in  a  year.  To  test  it,  I 
tied  a  little  tin  whistle  to  his  tail.     A  year  later  we 

170 


To  the  Breaks  of  Sandy 

went  and  fished  for  him.  The  second  day  I  caught 
him."  Willie  knocked  the  top-ashes  from  his  pipe 
and  puffed  silently. 

"Well?"  we  said. 

Willie  edged  away  out  of  reach,  speaking  softly. 

"  That  tin  whistle  had  grown  to  a  fog-horn."  We 
spared  him,  and  he  quickly  turned  to  a  poetico-scien- 
tific  dissertation  on  birds  and  flowers  in  the  Blue-grass 
and  in  the  mountains,  surprising  us.  He  knew,  posi- 
tively, what  even  the  great  Mr.  Burroughs  did  not 
seem  to  know  a  few  years  ago,  that  the  shrike — the 
butcher-bird — impales  mice  as  well  as  his  feathered 
fellows  on  thorns,  having  found  a  nest  in  a  thorn-tree 
up  in  the  Blue-grass  which  was  a  ghastly,  aerial, 
Indian-like  burying-place  for  two  mice  and  twenty 
song-sparrows.  So,  next  day,  Willie  and  I  turned 
unavailingly  to  Melissa,  whom  we  saw  but  once  speed- 
ing through  the  weeds  along  the  creek  bank  for  home 
and,  with  success,  to  Nature;  while  the  indefatigable 
Josh  and  Dan  and  Tiger  whipped  the  all  but  response- 
less  waters  once  more. 

We  reached  camp  at  sunset — dispirited  all.  Tiger 
refused  to  be  comforted  imtil  we  turned  loose  two  big 
catfish  in  a  pool  of  the  minnow  branch  and  gave  him 
permission  to  bring  them  out.  With  a  happy  wow 
Tiger  sprang  for  the  outsticking  point  of  a  horn  and 

171 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

with  a  mad  yelp  sprang  clear  of  the  water.  With  one 
nib  of  his  pricked  nose  against  the  bank,  he  jumped 
again.  AVherever  the  surface  of  the  water  rippled,  he 
made  a  dash,  nosing  under  the  grassy  clumps  where 
the  fish  tried  to  hide.  Twice  he  got  one  clear  of  the 
water,  but  it  was  hard  to  hold  to  the  slippery,  leathery 
skins.  In  ten  minutes  he  laid  both,  gasping,  on  the 
bank. 

Next  morning  we  struck  camp.  Willie  said  he 
would  go  on  ahead  and  let  down  the  fence — which 
was  near  Melissa's  cabin.  He  was  sitting  on  the 
fence,  with  a  disconsolate  pipe  between  his  teeth,  when 
we  rattled  and  shook  over  the  stony  way  up  the  creek 
— sitting  alone.  Yet  he  confessed.  He  had  had  a 
brief  farewell  with  Melissa.     WLat  did  she  say? 

"  She  said  she  was  sorry  we  were  going,"  said 
modest  Willie,  but  he  did  not  say  what  he  said;  and 
he  lifted  the  lid  of  the  typewriter  case,  the  label  of 
which  was  slowly  emptying  to  a  sad  and  empty  lie. 

"  Thus  pass  the  flowers,"  he  said,  with  a  last  back- 
ward look  to  the  log-cabin  and  the  black-haired, 
blackberry-stained  figure  watching  at  the  corner. 
"  Such  is  life — a  lick  and  a  promise,  and  then  no 
more."  The  wagon  passed  under  the  hill,  and 
Melissa,  the  maid  of  the  Breaks,  had  come  and  Melissa 
had  gone  forever. 

172 


To  the  Breaks  of  Sandy 

Only  next  day,  however — for  such,  too,  is  life — the 
aching  void  in  Willie's  imagination,  and  what  he  was 
pleased  to  call  his  heart,  was  nicely  filled  again. 

That  night  we  struck  the  confluence  of  Russell's 
Fork  and  the  Pound,  where,  under  wide  sycamores, 
the  meeting  of  swift  waters  had  lifted  from  the  river- 
beds a  high  breach  of  white  sand  and  had  considerately 
overspread  it  with  piles  of  dry  drift-wood.  The  place 
was  ideal — why  not  try  it  there?  The  freedom  of 
gypsies  was  ours,  and  we  did.  There  was  no  rain  in 
the  sky,  so  we  pitched  no  tent,  but  slept  on  the  sand, 
under  the  leaves  of  the  sycamore,  and,  by  the  light  of 
the  fire,  we  solaced  ourselves  with  the  cheery  game  of 
"  draw."  It  was  a  happy  night,  in  spite  of  Willie's 
disappointment  with  the  game.  He  played  with 
sorrow,  and  to  his  cost.  He  was  accustomed  to  table 
stakes;  he  did  not  know  how  to  act  on  a  modest  fifty- 
cent  limit,  being  denied  the  noble  privilege  of  "  bluff." 

"  I  was  playing  once  with  a  fellow  I  knew  slightly," 
he  said,  reminiscently  and  as  though  for  self-comfort, 
"  and  with  two  others  whom  I  didn't  know  at  all. 
The  money  got  down  between  me  and  one  of  the 
strangers,  and  when  the  other  stranger  dealt  the  last 
hand  my  suspicions  were  aroused.  I  picked  up  my 
hand.  He  had  dealt  me  a  full  house — three  aces  and 
a  pair.     I  made  up  my  mind  that  he  had  dealt  his  con- 

173 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

federate  four  of  a  kind,  and  do  you  know  what  I  did? 
I  discarded  the  pair  and  actually  caught  the  remain- 
ing ace.  When  it  came  to  a  show-down  he  had  four 
deuces.  I  scooped  in  all  the  gold,  pushed  over  to  my 
acquaintance  what  he  had  lost — in  their  presence — 
and  left  the  table."  Perhaps  it  was  just  as  well  that 
we  denied  Willie  his  own  game,  and  thus  kept  him 
shorn  of  his  strength. 

Next  day  was  hard,  faithful,  fruitless — Josh  and  I 
fishing  up-stream  and  Dan  and  Willie  wading  down 
the  "  Pound  " — and  we  came  in  at  dark,  each  pair 
with  a  few  three-quarter  pound  bass,  only  Willie  hav- 
ing had  a  bigger  catch.  They  had  struck  a  mill,  Dan 
said,  which  Willie  entered — reappearing  at  once  and 
silently  setting  his  rod,  and  going  back  again,  to  re- 
appear no  more.  Dan  found  him  in  there  with  his 
catch — a  mountain  maid,  fairer  even  than  Melissa, 
and  she  was  running  the  mill. 

Dan  had  hard  work  to  get  him  away,  but  Willie 
came  with  a  silent  purpose  that  he  unveiled  at  the 
camp-fire — when  he  put  his  rod  together.  He  was 
done  fishing  for  fish;  the  proper  study  of  mankind 
being  man,  his  proper  study,  next  day,  would  be  the 
maid  of  the  mill,  and  he  had  forged  his  plan.  He 
would  hire  a  mule,  put  on  jean  trousers,  a  slouch  hat, 
and  a  homespun  shirt,  buy  a  bag  of  com,  and  go  to  the 

174 


To  the  Breaks  of  Sandy 

mill.  When  that  bag  was  ground,  he  would  go  out 
and  buy  another.  All  his  life  he  had  wanted  to  learn 
the  milling  business,  and,  while  we  fished,  he  would 
learn.  But  we  had  had  enough,  and  were  stem. 
"We  would  move  on  from  those  hard-fished,  fishless 
waters  next  day.  In  silent  acquiescence  Willie  made 
for  the  wooden  box  and  its  fluid  consolation,  and  when 
he  was  through  with  label  and  jug,  the  tale  of  the 
altered  title  was  doubly  true. 

"  Ko  gal." 

It  takes  very  little  to  make  humor  in  the  woods. 

We  did  move  on,  but  so  strong  is  hope  and  so  pow- 
erful the  ancient  hunting  instinct  in  us  all,  that  we 
stopped  again  and  fished  again,  with  the  same  result, 
in  the  Pound.  Something  was  wrong.  Human 
effort  could  do  no  more.  So,  after  sleep  on  a  high 
hill,  through  a  windstorm,  it  was  home  with  us,  and 
with  unalterable  decision  this  time  we  started,  climb- 
ing hills,  sliding  down  them,  tooling  around  the  edge 
of  steep  cliffs — sun-baked,  bewhiskered,  and  happy,  in 
spite  of  the  days  of  hard,  hard  luck. 

Tiger  rode  on  th^  camp-chest  just  in  front  of  me. 
Going  up  a  hill  the ^ wagon  jolted,  and  the  dog  slipped 
and  fell  between  the  wheels.  The  hind  wheel,  I  saw, 
would  pass  over  the  dog's  body,  and  if  Tiger  had  been 
a  child,  I  couldn't  have  been  more  numb  with  horror. 

175 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

The  wheel  ran  squarely  over  him,  crushing  him  into 
the  sand.  The  little  fellow  gave  one  short,  brave,  sur- 
prised yelp.  Then  he  sprang  up  and  trotted  after 
us — unhurt.  It  was  a  miracle,  easier  to  believe  for 
the  reason  that  that  particular  hind  wheel  was  a  wheel 
of  kindly  magic.  Only  an  hour  before  it  had  run 
squarely  over  a  little  haversack  in  which  were  a  bottle, 
a  pipe,  and  other  fragile  things,  and  not  a  thing  was 
broken.  I  do  not  believe  it  would  have  been  possible 
so  to  arrange  the  contents  and  let  the  wheel  run  over 
it  as  harmlessly  again. 

Another  night,  another  hot  day,  and  another,  and 
we  were  tooling  down  into  the  beautiful  little  valley, 
toward  the  sunset  and  "  The  Gap  " — toward  razor, 
bathtub,  dinner,  Willie's  guitar  and  darky  songs,  and 
a  sound,  sweet  sleep  in  each  man's  own  bed — through 
dreams  of  green  hills,  gray  walls,  sharp  peaks,  and 
clear,  swift  waters,  from  which  no  fish  flashed  to  se- 
ductive fly  or  crimson-streaked  minnow.  But  with 
all  the  memories,  no  more  of  the  Breaks  for  Josh  or 
Dan  or  for  me;  and  no  more,  doubtless,  for  Willie, 
though  Melissa  be  there  waiting  for  him,  and  though 
the  other  maid,  with  the  light  of  mountain  waters  in 
her  eyes,  be  dreaming  of  him  at  her  mill. 

After  the  gods  of  strange  streams  we  would  run  no 
more. 

176 


Br'er  Coon  in  Ole  Kentucky 


Br'er  Coon  in  Ole  Kentucky 

De  ole  man  coon  am  a  sly  ole  cusb  : 

Git  erlong,  coon-dog,  now  I 
An'  de  lady  coon  am  a  leetle  bit  wuss  ; 

Git  erlong,  coon-dog,  now  I 

We  hunts  'em  when  de  nights  gits  dark ; 

Git  erlong,  coon-dog,  now  ! 
Dey  runs  when  dey  hears  de  big  dogs  bark  ; 

Git  erlong,  coon-dog,  now  1 

But  'deed,  Mister  Coon,  hit's  no  use  to  try; 

Git  erlong,  coon-dog,  now  ! 
Fer  when  we  comes  you's  boun'  to  die  ; 
^  Git  erlong,  coon-dog,  now  I 

THE  day  was  late  in  autumn.  The  sun  was  low, 
and  the  haze  of  Indian  summer  hung  like  mist 
on  the  horizon.  Crows  were  rising  from  fat 
pickings  in  the  blue-grass  fields,  and  stretching  away 
in  long  lines  through  a  yellow  band  of  western  light, 
and  toward  the  cliffs  of  the  Kentucky  River,  where 
they  roost  in  safety  the  winter  long.  An  hour  later 
darkness  fell,  and  we  rode  forth  the  same  way,  some 
fifty  strong. 

179 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

There  were  "  young  cap'n/'  as  "  young  marster  " 
is  DOW  called,  and  his  sister  Miriam;  Northcott,  who 
was  from  the  North,  and  was  my  friend;  young 
farmers  from  the  neighborhood,  with  their  sisters  and 
sweethearts;  a  party  from  the  county  town  not  far 
away;  a  contingent  from  the  Iroquois  Hunt  Club,  of 
Lexington;  old  Tray,  a  tobacco  tenant  from  the  Cum- 
berland foot-hills;  and  old  Ash,  a  darky  coon-hunter 
who  is  known  throughout  the  State. 

There  were  White  Child  and  Black  Babe,  two 
young  coon-dogs  which  Ash  claimed  as  his  own; 
Bulger,  a  cur  that  belonged  to  Tray;  young  captain's 
favorites,  June  Bug  and  Star;  several  dogs  from  the 
neighborhood;  and  two  little  fox-terriers,  trotting  to 
heel,  which  the  Major,  a  veteran,  had  brought  along 
to  teach  the  country  folks  a  new  wrinkle  in  an  old 
sport. 

Ash  was  a  ragged,  old-time  darky  with  a  scraggly 
beard  and  a  caressing  voice.  He  rode  a  mule  with  a 
blind  bridle  and  no  saddle.  In  his  belt,  and  hanging 
behind,  was  an  ax-head  fixed  to  a  handle  of  hatchet 
length;  the  purpose  of  this  was  to  cut  a  limb  from 
under  Br'er  Coon  when  he  could  not  be  shaken  off,  or 
to  cut  a  low  entrance  into  his  hole,  so  that  he  could 
be  prodded  out  at  the  top  with  a  sharp  stick.  In  his 
pockets  were  matches  to  build  a  fire,  that  the  fight 

i8o 


Brer  Coon  in  Ole  Kentucky 

could  be  seen;  at  his  side  hung  a  lantern  with  which 
"  to  shine  his  eye  "  when  the  coon  was  treed;  and 
under  him  was  a  meal-sack  for  Br'er  Possum. 

Tobacco  had  brought  Tray  from  the  foot-hills  to  the 
Blue-grass.  His  horse  was  as  sorry  as  Ash's  mule, 
and  he  wore  a  rusty  gray  overcoat  and  a  rusty  slouch- 
hat.  The  forefinger  of  his  bridle-hand  was  off  at  the 
second  joint — a  coon's  teeth  had  nipped  it  as  clean 
as  the  stroke  of  a  surgeon's  knife,  one  night,  when  he 
ran  into  a  fight  to  pull  off  a  young  dog.  Tray  and 
Ash  betrayed  a  racial  inheritance  of  mutual  contempt 
that  was  intensified  by  the  rivalry  of  their  dogs. 
From  these  two,  the  humanity  ran  up,  in  the  matter 
of  dress,  through  the  young  farmers  and  country  girls, 
and  through  the  hunt  club,  to  Northcott,  who  was 
conventional  perfection,  and  young  captain's  pict- 
uresque sister,  who  wore  the  white  slouch-hat  of  some 
young  cavalryman, — the  brim  pinned  up  at  the  side 
with  the  white  wing  of  a  pigeon  that  she  had  shot  with 
her  own  hand. 

The  cavalcade  moved  over  the  turf  of  the  front 
woods,  out  the  pike  gate,  and  clattered  at  a  gallop  for 
two  miles  down  the  limestone  road.  Here  old  Ash 
called  a  halt;  and  he  and  Tray,  and  young  captain 
and  Blackburn,  who  was  tall,  swarthy,  and  typical, 
rode  on  ahead.     I  was  allowed  to  follow  in  order  to 

i8i 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

see  the  dogs  work.     So  was  Northcott;  but  he  pre- 
ferred to  stay  behind  for  a  while. 

"  Keep  back  thar  now,"  shouted  Ash  to  the  crowd, 
"  an'  keep  still!  "  So  they  waited  behind  while  we 
went  on.  The  old  darky  threw  the  dogs  off  in  a  wood- 
land to  the  left,  and  there  was  dead  silence  for  a  while, 
and  the  mystery  of  darkness.  By  and  by  came  a 
short,  eager  yelp. 


n 

Only  two  days  before,  Korthcott  and  I  were  down 
in  the  Kentucky  mountains  fishing  for  bass  in  the 
Cumberland,  and  a  gaunt  mountaineer  was  helping 
us  catch  minnows. 

"  Coons  is  a-gittin'  fat,"  he  remarked  sententiously 
to  another  mountaineer,  who  was  lazily  following  us 
up  the  branch;  "  an'  they's  a-gittin'  fat  on  my  corn.'* 

"  You  like  coons?  "  I  asked. 

"  Well,  jes  gimme  all  the  coon  I  can  eat  in  three 
days — in  three  days,  mind  ye — an'  then  lay  me  up  in 
bed  ag'in  a  jug  o'  moonshine — "  Words  failed  him 
there,  and  he  waved  his  hand.  "  Them  coons  kin 
have  all  o'  my  corn  they  kin  hold.  I'd  jes  as  lieve 
have  my  corn  in  coons  as  in  a  crib.  I  keeps  my  dawgs 
tied  up  so  the  coons  kin  take  their  time ;  but  " — he 

182 


Br'er  Coon  in  Ole  Kentucky 

turned  solemnly  to  his  companion  again  —  "  coons 
is  a-gittin'  fat,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  turn  tliem  dawgs 
loose." 

"White  moonshine,  coons,  and  sweet  potatoes  for  the 
Kentucky  mountaineer;  and  on  through  the  Blue- 
grass  and  the  Purchase  to  the  Ohio,  and  no  farther — 
red  whiskey,  coons,  and  sweet  potatoes  for  the  night- 
roving  children  of  Ham.  It  is  a  very  old  sport  in  the 
State.  As  far  back  as  1785,  one  shouting  Methodist 
preacher  is  known  to  have  trailed  a  virgin  forest  for 
old  Br'er  Coon.  He  was  called  Raccoon  John  Smith, 
and  he  is  doubtless  the  father  of  the  hunt  in  Ken- 
tucky. Traced  back  through  Virginia,  the  history  of 
the  chase  would  most  likely  strike  root  in  the  home- 
sickness of  certain  English  colonists  for  trailing 
badgers  of  nights  in  the  old  country,  and  sending 
terriers  into  the  ground  for  them.  One  night,  doubt- 
less, some  man  of  these  discovered  what  a  plucky  fight 
a  certain  ring-tailed,  black-muzzled,  bear-like  little 
beast  would  put  up  at  the  least  banter;  and  thereafter, 
doubtless,  every  man  who  loved  to  hunt  the  badger 
was  ready  to  hunt  the  coon.  That  is  the  theory  of  a 
distinguished  Maryland  lawyer  and  coon-hunter,  at 
least,  and  it  is  worthy  of  record.  The  sport  is  common 
in  Pennsylvania,  and  also  in  Connecticut,  where  the 
hunters  finish  the  coon  with  a  shot-gun;  and  in  New 

183 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

England,  I  am  told,  "  drawing  "  the  coon  is  yet  done. 
Br'er  Coon  is  placed  in  a  long,  square  box  or  trough, 
and  the  point  is  to  get  a  fox-terrier  that  is  game  enough 
to  go  in  "  and  bring  him  out."  That,  too,  is  an  in- 
heritance from  the  English  way  of  badger-fighting, 
which  was  tried  on  our  American  badgers  without 
success,  as  it  was  usually  found  necessary,  after  a  short 
fight,  to  draw  out  the  terrier — dead.  Coon-hunting 
is,  however,  distinctly  a  Southern  sport,  although  the 
coon  is  found  all  over  the  United  States,  and  as  far 
north  as  Alaska.  It  is  the  darky  who  has  made  the 
sport  Southern.  With  him  it  has  always  been,  is  now, 
and  always  will  be,  a  passion.  Inseparable  are  the 
darky  and  his  coon-dog.  And  nowhere  in  the  South 
is  the  sport  more  popular  than  in  Kentucky — with 
mountaineers,  negroes,  and  people  of  the  Blue-grass. 
It  is  the  more  remarkable,  then,  that  of  all  the  beasts 
that  walk  the  blue-grass  fields,  the  coon-dog  is  the 
only  one  for  which  the  Kentuckian  does  not  claim 
superiority.  The  Kentucky  coon-dog — let  his  master 
get  full  credit  for  the  generous  concession — is  no 
better  than  the  coon-dog  of  any  other  State.  Perhaps 
this  surprising  apathy  is  due  to  the  fact  that  the  coon- 
dog  has  no  family  position.  A  prize  was  offered  in 
1891  by  the  Blue-grass  Kennel  Club  at  Lexington, 
and  was  won,  of  course,  by  a  Kentucky  dog;  but  the 

184 


Br'er  Coon  in  Ole  Kentucky 

American  Kennel  Club  objected,  and  the  prize  has 
never  been  offered  again.  So  the  coon-dog  has  no  rec- 
ognized breed.  He  is  not  even  called  a  hound.  He  is 
a  dog — just  a  "  dawg,"  He  may  be  cur,  fox-terrier, 
fox-hound,  or  he  may  have  all  kinds  of  grand-parents. 
On  one  occasion  that  is  worth  interjecting  he  was  even 
a  mastiff.  An  Irishman  in  Louisville  owned  what  he 
called  the  "  brag  coon-dog  "  of  the  State.  There  are 
big  woods  near  Louisville,  and  a  good  deal  of  hunting 
for  the  coon  is  done  in  them.  A  German  who  lived 
in  the  same  street  had  a  mastiff  with  the  playful  habit 
of  tossing  every  cat  that  came  into  his  yard  over  the 
fence — dead.  The  Irishman  conceived  the  idea  that 
the  mastiff  would  make  the  finest  coon-dog  on  earth — 
not  excepting  his  own.  He  persuaded  the  German  to 
go  out  in  the  woods  with  him  one  night,  and  he  took 
his  own  dog  along  to  teach  the  mastiff  how  to  fight. 
The  coon  was  shaken  out  of  the  tree.  The  coon-dog 
made  for  the  coon,  and  the  mastiff  made  for  the  coon- 
dog,  and  reached  him  before  he  reached  the  coon.  In 
a  minute  the  coon-dog  was  dead,  the  coon  was  making 
off  through  the  rustling  maize,  and  Celt  and  Teuton 
were  clinched  under  the  spreading  oak.  Originally, 
the  coon-dog  was  an  uncompromising  cur,  or  a  worth- 
less fox-hound  that  had  dropped  out  of  his  pack;  and 
most  likely  darkies  and  boys  had  a  monopoly  of  the 

185 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

sport  in  the  good  old  days  when  the  hunting  was 
purely  for  the  fun  of  the  fight,  and  when  trees  were 
cut  down,  and  nobody  took  the  trouble  to  climb. 
When  the  red  fox  drove  out  the  gray,  the  newer  and 
swifter  hounds — old  Lead's  descendants — took  away 
the  occupation  of  the  old  fox-hound,  and  he,  in  tuni, 
took  the  place  of  the  cur;  so  that  the  Kentucky  coon- 
dog  of  to-day  is  usually  the  old-fashioned  hound  that 
was  used  to  hunt  the  gray  fox,  the  "  pot-licker  " — the 
black-and-tan,  long-eared,  rat-tailed,  flat-bellied,  splay- 
footed "  pot-licker."  Such  a  hound  is  a  good  trailer; 
he  makes  a  good  fight,  and  there  is  no  need  in  the  hunt 
for  special  speed.  Recently  the  terrier  has  been  in- 
troduced to  do  the  fighting  when  the  coon  has  been 
trailed  and  treed,  because  he  is  a  more  even  match, 
and  as  game  as  any  dog;  and,  thanks  to  Mr.  Belmont's 
"  iN^ursery  "  in  the  Blue-grass,  the  best  terriers  are 
accessible  to  the  Kentucky  hunters  who  want  that 
kind  of  fight. 

But  it  is  the  hunt  with  an  old  darky,  and  old  coon- 
dogs,  and  a  still,  damp,  dark  night,  that  is  dear  to  the 
Southern  hunter's  heart.  It  is  the  music  of  the  dogs, 
the  rivalry  between  them,  the  subtleties  of  the  trail, 
and  the  quick,  fierce  fight,  that  give  the  joy  then. 
Only  recently  have  the  ladies  begun  to  take  part  in  the 
sport,  and,  naturall}^,  it  is  growing  in  favor.     Coons 

i86 


Brer  Coon  in  Ole  Kentucky 

are  plentiful  in  the  Blue-grass,  even  around  the  towns, 
where  truck-patches  are  convenient,  and  young 
turkeys  and  chickens  unwary.  For  a  coon,  unlesa 
hard-pressed,  will  never  go  up  any  tree  but  his 
own;  and  up  his  own  tree  he  is  usually  safe,  for 
trees  are  now  too  valuable  to  be  cut  down  for 
coons. 

It  is  the  ride  of  only  a  few  hours  from  the  moun- 
tains to  the  lowland  Blue-grass,  and  down  there,  too, 
eoons  were  getting  fat;  so  on  the  morning  of  the 
second  day  !N^orthcott  and  I  woke  up  in  the  ell  of  an 
old-fashioned  Blue-grass  homestead — an  ell  that  was 
known  as  the  "  office  "  in  slavery  days — and  old  Ash's 
gray  head  was  thrust  through  the  open  door. 

"  Breakfast  'mos'  ready.  Young  cap'n  say  you 
mus'  git  up  now." 

Crackling  flames  were  leaping  up  the  big  chimney 
from  the  ash  kindling-wood  and  hickory  logs  piled  in 
the  enormous  fireplace,  and  Northcott,  from  his  bed 
in  the  corner,  chuckled  with  delight. 

That  morning  the  ISTortherner  rode  through  peace- 
ful fields  and  woodlands,  and  looked  at  short-horn 
cattle  and  Southdown  sheep  and  thorough-bred  horses, 
and  saw  the  havoc  that  tobacco  was  bringing  to  the 
lovely  land.  When  he  came  back  dinner  was  ready — 
his  first  Southern  dinner. 

187 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

After  dinner,  Miriam  took  him  to  feed  young  cap- 
tain's pet  coon,  the  Governor,  and  Black  Eye,  a  fox- 
terrier  that  was  the  Governor's  best  friend — both  in 
the  same  plate.  The  Governor  was  chained  to  an  old 
apple-tree,  and  slept  in  a  hole  which  he  had  enlarged 
for  himself  about  six  feet  from  the  ground.  Let  a 
strange  dog  appear,  and  the  Governor  would  retreat, 
and  Black  Eye  attack;  and  after  the  fight  the  Gov- 
ernor would  descend,  and  plainly  manifest  his  grati- 
tude with  slaps  and  scratches  and  bites  of  tenderness. 
The  Governor  never  looked  for  anything  that  was 
tossed  him,  but  would  feel  for  it  with  his  paws,  never 
lowering  his  blinking  eyes  at  all.  Moreover,  he  was 
a  dainty  beast,  for  he  washed  everything  in  a  basin  of 
water  before  he  ate  it. 

"  Dey  eats  ever'thing,  boss,"  said  old  Ash's  soft 
voice;  "but  dey  likes  crawfish  best.  I  reckon  coon 
'11  eat  dawg,  jes  as  dawg  eats  coon.  But  dawg  won't 
eat  'possum.  Gib  a  dawg  a  piece  o'  'possum  meat, 
and  he  spit  it  out,  and  look  at  you  mean  and  reproach- 
ful. Knowin'  'possum  lack  I  do,  dat  sut'nly  do  look 
strange.     Hit  do,  mon,  shore. 

"  An'  as  fer  fightin' — well,  I  ain't  never  seed  a  coon 
dat  wouldn't  fight,  an'  I  ain't  never  seed  nuttin'  dat  a 
coon  wouldn't  tackle.  Most  folks  believes  dat  a 
'possum  canH  fight.     Well,  you  jes  tie  a  'possum  an' 

i88 


Br'er  Coon  in  Ole  Kentucky 

coon  together  by  de  tails,  an'  swing  'em  over  a  clothes- 
line, an'  when  you  come  back  you  gwine  find  de  coon 
daid.  'Possum  jes  take  hole  in  de  throat,  an'  go  to 
sleep — jes  like  a  bull-pup." 

A  gaunt  figure  in  a  slouch-hat  and  ragged  overcoat 
had  slouched  in  at  the  yard  gate.  His  eye  was  blue 
and  mild^  and  his  face  was  thin  and  melancholy.  Old 
Ash  spoke  to  him  familiarly,  and  young  captain  called 
him  Tray.  He  had  come  for  no  reason  other  than 
that  he  was  mildly  curious  and  friendly;  and  he 
stopped  shyly  behind  young  captain,  fumbling  with 
the  stump  of  one  finger  at  a  little  sliver  of  wood  that 
served  as  the  one  button  to  his  overcoat,  silent,  listless, 
gentle,  grave.  And  there  the  three  stood,  the  pillars 
of  the  old  social  structure  that  the  war  brought  down 
— the  slave,  the  poor  white,  the  master  of  one  and 
the  lord  of  both.  Between  one  and  the  other  the 
chasm  was  still  deep,  but  they  would  stand  shoulder  to 
shoulder  in  the  hunt  that  night. 

"  Dat  wind  from  de  souf,"  said  old  Ash,  as  we 
turned  back  to  the  house.  "  Git  cloudy  bime-by. 
We  gwine  to  git  Mister  Coon  dis  night,  shore." 

A  horn  sounded  from  the  quarters  soon  after 
supper,  and  the  baying  of  dogs  began.  Several 
halloos  came  through  the  front  woods,  and  soon  there 
was  the  stamping  of  horses'  feet  about  the  yard  fence, 

189 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

and  much  jolly  laughter.  Girths  were  tightened,  and 
a  little  later  the  loud  slam  of  the  pike  gate  announced 
that  the  hunt  was  begun. 


ni 

Br'er  Coon  he  has  a  bushy  tail ; 

Br'er  Possum's  tail  am  bar'  ; 
Br'er  Rabbit's  got  no  tail  at  all — 

Jes  a  leetle  bunch  o'  ha'r. 

When  the  yelp  came,  Tray's  lips  opened  tri- 
umphantly: 

"Bulger!" 

"  Eabbit,"  said  old  Ash,  contemptuously. 

Bulger  was  a  young  dog,  and  only  half  broken ;  but 
every  hunter  knew  that  each  old  dog  had  stopped  in 
his  tracks  and  was  listening.  There  was  another  yelp 
and  another;  and  the  old  dogs  harked  to  him.  But 
the  hunters  sat  still  to  give  the  dogs  tune  to  trail,  as 
hunters  always  do.  Sometimes  they  will  not  move 
for  half  an  hour,  unless  the  dogs  are  going  out  of  hear- 
ing.    Old  Ash  was  humming  calmly; 

Coony  in  de  tree  ; 

'Possum  in  de  holler  ; 
Purty  gal  at  my  house, 

Fat  as  she  kin  waller. 

190 


Brer  Coon  in  Ole  Kentucky- 
It  was  Tray's  dog,  and  old  Ash  could  afford  to  be 
calm  and  scornful,  for  he  was  without  faith.  So  over 
and  over  he  sang  it  softly,  while  Tray's  mouth  was 
open,  and  his  ear  was  eagerly  cocked  to  every  note  of 
the  trail.  The  air  was  very  chilly  and  damp.  The 
moon  was  no  more  than  a  silver  blotch  in  a  leaden  sky, 
and  barely  visible  here  and  there  was  a,  dim  star.  On 
every  side,  the  fields  and  dark  patches  of  woodland 
rolled  alike  to  the  horizon,  except  straight  ahead, 
where  one  black  line  traced  the  looping  course  of 
the  river.  That  way  the  dogs  were  running,  and  the 
music  was  growing  furious.  It  was  too  much  for 
Tray,  who  suddenly  let  out  the  most  remarkable  yell 
I  have  ever  heard  from  human  lips.  That  was  a 
signal  to  the  crowd  behind.  A  rumbling  started;  the 
crowd  was  striking  the  hard  turnpike  at  a  swift  gallop, 
coming  on.  It  was  quick  work  for  Bulger,  and  the 
melancholy  of  Tray's  face  passed  from  under  the  eager 
light  in  his  eyes,  and  as  suddenly  came  back  like  a 
shadow.  The  music  had  stopped  short,  and  old  Ash 
pulled  in  with  a  grunt  of  disgust. 

"  Rabbit,  I  tol'  ye,"  he  said  again,  contemptuously; 
and  Tray  looked  grieved.  A  dog  with  a  strange 
mouth  gave  tongue  across  the  dim  fields. 

"  House  cat,"  said  young  captain.  "  That  was  a 
farm  dog.     The  young  dogs  ran  the  cat  home."     This 

191 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

was  true,  for  just  then  two  of  the  old  dogs  leaped  the 
fence  and  crossed  the  road. 

"  They  won't  hark  to  him  next  time,"  said  young 
captain;  "Bulger's  a  liar."  A  coon-dog  is  never 
worthless,  "  no  'count;  "  he  is  simply  a  "  liar."  Nine 
out  of  ten  young  dogs  will  run  a  rabbit  or  a  house  cat. 
The  old  dogs  will  trust  a  young  one  once  or  twice; 
but  if  he  proves  unworthy  of  confidence,  they  will  not 
go  to  him  sometimes  when  he  is  really  on  a  coon  trail, 
and  will  have  to  be  called  by  their  masters  after  the 
coon  is  treed.  As  Bulger  sprang  into  the  road,  old 
Ash  objurgated  him: 

"  \VTiut  you  mean,  dawg? — you  black  liah,  you!  '* 
The  pain  in  Tray's  face  was  pathetic. 

"  Bulger  hain't  no  liar,"  he  said  sturdily. 
"  Bulger's  jes  young." 

Then  we  swept  down  the  road  another  mile  to  an- 
other woodland,  and  this  time  I  stayed  with  the  crowd 
behind.  Young  captain  had  given  Northcott  his 
favorite  saddle-horse  and  a  fat  saddle  that  belonged  to 
his  father;  and  Northcott,  though  a  cross-country  rider 
at  home,  was  not  happy.  He  was  being  gently  rocked 
sidewise  in  a  maddening  little  pace  that  made  him  look 
as  ridiculous  as  he  felt. 

"  You  haven't  ridden  a  Southern  saddle-horse 
before,  have  you?  "  said  Miriam. 

192 


Br'er  Coon  in  Ole  Kentucky 

"  No;  I  never  have." 

"  Then  you  won't  mind  a  few  instructions? " 

"  No,  indeed,"  he  said  meekly. 

"  AVell,  press  your  hand  at  the  base  of  his  neck- 
so — and  tighten  your  reins  just  a  little — now." 

The  horse  broke  step  into  a  "  running  walk,"  which 
was  a  new  sensation  to  Northcott.  We  started  up  the 
pace  a  little. 

"  !N'ow  press  behind  your  saddle  on  the  right  side, 
and  tighten  your  rein  a  little  more,  and  hold  it  steady 
— so — and  he'll  rack."  The  saddler  struck  a  swift 
gait  that  was  a  revelation  to  the  Northerner. 

"  Now,  if  you  want  him  to  trot,  catch  him  by  the 
mane  or  by  the  right  ear." 

The  horse  broke  his  step  instantly. 

"  Beautiful!  "  said  Northcott.     "  This  is  my  gait." 

"  Now  wave  your  hand — so."  The  animal  struck 
an  easy  lope. 

"Lovely!" 

We  swept  on.  A  young  countryman  who  was 
called  Tom  watched  the  instruction  with  provincial 
amusement. 

I  was  riding  young  captain's  buggy  mare,  and,  try- 
ing her  over  a  log,  I  learned  that  she  could  jump.  So, 
later  in  the  night,  I  changed  horses  mth  Northcott — 
for  a  purpose. 

193 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

We  could  hear  the  dogs  trailing  around  to  the  right 
now,  and  the  still  figures  of  Ash  and  Tray  halted  us 
in  the  road.  Presently  the  yelps  fused  into  a  musical 
chorus,  and  then  a  long,  penetrating  howl  came 
through  the  woods  that  was  eloquent  to  the  knowing. 

"  Dar's  old  Star,"  said  Ash,  kicking  his  mule  in  the 
side;  "  an'  dar's  a  coon!  " 

We  had  a  dash  through  the  woods  at  a  gallop  then, 
and  there  was  much  dodging  of  low  branches,  and 
whisking  around  tree-trunks,  and  a  great  snapping  of 
brush  on  the  ground ;  and  we  swept  out  of  the  shadows 
of  the  woodland  to  a  white  patch  of  moonlight,  in  the 
centre  of  which  was  a  little  walnut-tree.  About  this 
the  dogs  were  sitting  on  their  haunches,  baying  up  at 
its  leafless  branches;  and  there,  on  the  first  low  limb, 
scarcely  ten  feet  from  the  ground  and  two  feet  from 
the  trunk,  sat,  not  ring-tailed  Br'er  Coon,  but  a  fat, 
round,  gray  'possum,  paying  no  attention  at  all  to  the 
hunters  gathering  under  him,  but  keeping  each  of  his 
beady  black  eyes  moving  with  nervous  quickness  from 
one  dog  to  another.  Old  Ash  was  laughing  triumph- 
antly in  the  rear.  "  Black  Babe  foun'  dat  'possum. 
Dis  nigger's  got  dawgs!  "  Northcott  was  called  up, 
that  he  might  see;  and  young  captain  rode  under  the 
little  fellow,  and,  reaching  up,  caught  him  by  the  tail, 
the  'possum  making  no  effort  at  all  to  escape,  so  en- 

194 


Br'er  Coon  in  Ole  Kentucky 

grossed  was  he  with  the  dogs.  Old  Ash,  with  a  wide 
smile,  dropped  him  into  the  mouth  of  his  meal-sack. 

"  Won't  he  smother  in  there,"  asked  Northcott, 
"  or  eat  his  way  out?  " 

Old  Ash  grinned.  "  He'll  be  dar  when  we  git 
home."  Then  he  turned  to  Tray.  "  I  gwine  to  let 
you  have  dis  'possum  in  de  morning,  to  train  dat  liah 
Bulger." 

There  is  no  better  way  to  train  a  young  dog  than  to 
let  him  worry  a  'possum  after  he  has  found  it;  and  this 
is  not  as  cruel  as  it  seems.  Br'er  'Possum  knows  how 
to  roll  up  in  a  ball  and  protect  his  vitals;  and  when 
you  think  he  is  about  dead,  he  will  unroll,  but  little 
hurt. 

The  clouds  were  breaking  now;  the  moon  showed 
full,  the  air  had  grown  crisp,  and  the  stars  were  thick 
and  brilliant.  For  half  an  hour  we  sat  on  a  hill-side 
waiting,  and,  for  some  occult  reason,  the  Major  was 
becoming  voluble. 

"  ]^ow,  old  Tray  there  thinks  he's  hunting  the  coon. 
So  does  old  Ash.  I  reckon  that  we  are  all  laboring 
under  that  painful  delusion.  Whereas  the  truth  is 
that  the  object  of  this  hunt  is  attained.  I  refer,  sir, 
to  that  'possum."  He  turned-  to  Northcott.  "  You 
have  never  eaten  'possum  ?  Well,  sir,  it  is  a  very  easy 
and  dangerous  habit  to  contract  if  the  'possum  is 

195 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

properly  prepared.  I  venture  to  say,  sir,  that  nawth 
of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line  the  gastronomical  possibili- 
ties of  the  'possum  are  utterly  unknown.  How  do  I 
prepare  him?    Well,  sir " 

The  Major  was  interrupted  by  a  mighty  yell  from 
old  Ash ;  and  again  there  was  a  great  rush  through  the 
low  undergrowth,  over  the  rocky  hill-side,  and  down  a 
long,  wooded  hollow.  This  time  the  old  negro's 
favorites,  White  Child  and  Black  Babe,  were  in  the 
lead;  and  old  Ash  flapped  along  like  a  windmill,  with 
every  tooth  in  sight. 

"Go  it.  Black  Babe!  Go  it,  my  White  Chile  I 
Gord !  but  dis  nigger's  got  dawgs !  " 

Everybody  caught  his  enthusiasm,  and  we  could 
hear  the  crowd  thundering  behind  us.  I  was  next 
Ash,  and  all  of  a  sudden  the  old  darky  came  to  a  quick 
stop,  and  caught  at  his  nose  with  one  hand.  A  pow- 
erful odor  ran  like  an  electric  shock  through  the  air, 
and  a  long  howl  from  each  dog  told  that  each  had 
started  from  some  central  point  on  his  own  responsi- 
bility. The  Major  raised  his  voice.  "Stop!"  he 
shouted.  "  Keep  the  ladies  back — keep  'em  'way 
back!  " 

"Gord!  "  said  old  Ash  once  more;  and  Tray  lay 
down  on  his  horse's  neck,  helpless  with  laughter. 

The  Major  was  too  disgusted  for  words.  When 
196 


^ 

>. 


o 

O 


M 
^ 


Br'er  Coon  in  Ole  Kentucky 

we  crossed  the  road,  and  paused  again,  he  called  in  a 
loud  voice  for  me  to  advance  and  see  the  dogs  work. 
Then  he  directed  me  to  call  Northcott  forward  for  the 
same  purpose.  Blackburn  came,  too.  A  moment 
later  I  heard  young  captain  shouting  to  the  crowd, 
"  Keep  back,  keep  back!  "  and  he,  too,  spurred  around 
the  bushes. 

"  Where  are  those  dogs? "  he  asked  with  mock 
anxiety. 

The  neck  of  the  Major's  horse  was  lengthened 
peacefully  through  the  rails  of  a  ten-foot  fence,  and 
at  the  question  the  veteran  whisked  a  bottle  of  old 
Jordan  from  his  hip. 

"  Here  they  are." 

Then  followed  an  eloquent  silence  that  turned  the 
cold  October  air  into  the  night-breath  of  June,  that 
made  the  mists  warm,  the  stars  rock,  and  the  moon 
smile.     Once  more  we  waited. 

"  How  do  I  prepare  him,  sir? "  said  the  Major. 
"  You  skin  the  coon ;  but  you  singe  off  the  hair  of  the 
'possum  in  hot  wood-ashes,  because  the  skin  is  a  deli- 
cacy, and  must  not  be  scalded.  Then  parbile  him. 
This  takes  a  certain  strength  away,  and  makes  him 
more  tender.  Then  put  him  in  a  pan,  with  a  good 
deal  of  butter,  pepper,  and  salt,  and  a  little  brown 
flour,  leaving  the  head  and  tail  on.     Then  cut  little 

197 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

slips  along  the  ribs  and  haunches,  and  fill  them  with 
red-pepper  pods.  Baste  him  with  gravy  while  brown- 
ing " — the  Major's  eyes  brightened,  and  once  at  least 
his  lips  smacked  distinctly — "  cook  sweet  potatoes 
around  him,  and  then  serve  him  smoking  hot — 
though  some,  to  be  sure,  prefer  him  cold,  like  roast 
pork.  You  must  have  dodgers,  very  brown  and  very 
crisp ;  and,  of  course,  raw  persimmons  (persimmons  are 
ripe  in  'possum-time,  and  'possums  Uke  persimmons — 
the  two  are  inseparable);  pickles,  chow-chow,  and 
tomato  ketchup ;  and,  lastly,  pumpkin-pie  and  a  second 
cup  of  coffee.  Then,  with  a  darky  and  a  banjo,  a 
mint-julep  and  a  pipe,  you  may  have  a  reasonable  ex- 
pectation of  being,  for  a  little  while,  happy.  And 
speaking  of  julep " 

Just  then  two  dim  forms  were  moving  out  of  sight 
behind  some  bushes  below  us,  and  the  Major  shouted: 

"Tawm!" 

The  two  horsemen  turned  reluctantly,  and  when 
Tom  was  near  enough  the  Major  asked  a  whispered 
question,  and  got  an  affirmative  response. 

"  All  right,"  added  the  Major,  with  satisfaction. 
"  Shake  hands  with  Mr.  Northcott.  I  hereby  pro- 
mote you,  sir,  to  the  privilege  of  staying  in  front  and 
watching  the  dogs  work." 

Northcott's  face  was  distinctly  flushed  after  this 
198 


Brer  Coon  in  Ole  Kentucky 

promotion,  and  he  confessed  afterward  to  an  insane 
desire  to  imitate  the  Major's  speech  and  Blackburn's 
stately  manner.  When  we  started  off  again,  he  posted 
along  with  careless  content,  and  many  sympathized 
with  him. 

"  Oh,  this  is  just  what  I  like,"  he  said.  "  Every- 
body posts  up  Xorth — even  the  ladies." 

"  Dear  me!  "  said  several. 

"  I  reckon  that  kind  of  a  horse  is  rather  better  for 
an  inexperienced  rider,"  said  Tom,  friendly,  and 
Northcott  smiled.  Somebody  tried  a  horse  over  a  log 
a  few  minutes  later,  and  the  horse  swerved  to  one  side. 
Northcott  wheeled,  and  started  for  a  bigger  log  at  a 
gallop;  and  the  little  mare  rose,  as  if  on  wings,  two 
feet  higher  than  was  necessary,  while  Northcott  sat 
as  if  bound  to  his  saddle. 

Then  he  leaped  recklessly  into  another  field,  and 
back  again.     Tom  was  speechless. 

It  was  after  midnight  now,  and  the  moon  and  stars 
were  passing  swiftly  overhead;  but  the  crowd  started 
with  undiminished  enthusiasm  when  a  long  howl  an- 
nounced that  some  dog  had  treed.  This  time  it  was 
no  mistake.  At  the  edge  of  the  woodland  sat  the  old 
darky  at  the  foot  of  the  tree  to  keep  the  coon  from 
coming  down,  while  the  young  dogs  were  bouncing 
madly  about  him,  and  baying  up  into  the  tree.     It  was 

199 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

curious  to  watch  old  Star  when  he  arrived.  He  would 
take  no  pup's  word  for  the  truth,  but  circled  the  tree 
to  find  out  whether  the  coon  had  simply  "  marked  " 
it;  and,  satisfied  on  that  point,  he  settled  down  on  his 
haunches,  and,  with  uplifted  muzzle,  bayed  with  the 
rest. 

"  I  knowed  dis  was  coon,"  said  Ash,  rising. 
"  'Possum  circles;  coon  runs  straight." 

Then  the  horses  were  tied,  and  everybody  gathered 
twigs  and  branches  and  dead  wood  for  a  fire,  which 
was  built  half-way  between  the  trunk  and  the  tips  of 
the  overhanging  branches;  and  old  Ash  took  off  his 
shoes,  his  coat,  and  his  "  vest,"  for  no  matter  how  cold 
the  night,  the  darky  will  climb  in  shirt,  socks,  and 
trousers.  If  he  can  reach  around  the  tree,  he  will  go 
up  like  a  monkey;  if  he  can't,  he  will  go  to  the  outer 
edge,  and  pull  a  bough  down.  In  this  case  he  could 
do  neither,  so  young  captain  stood  with  his  hands 
braced  against  the  tree,  while  the  old  darky  climbed 
up  his  back,  and  stamped  in  sock  feet  over  his  head 
and  shoulders.  Tray  held  the  fence-rail  alongside, 
and,  with  the  aid  of  this,  the  two  boosted  Ash  to  the 
first  limb.  Then  the  men  formed  a  circle  around  the 
tree  at  equal  distances,  each  man  squatting  on  the 
ground,  and  with  a  dog  between  his  knees.  The 
Major  held  his  terriers;  and  as  everybody  had  seen  tbo 

200 


Br'er  Coon  in  Ole  Kentucky 

usual  coon-fight,  it  was  agreed  that  the  terriers  should 
have  the  first  chance.  Another  darky  took  a  lantern, 
and  walked  around  the  tree  with  the  lantern  held  just 
behind  one  ear,  "  to  shine  the  coon's  eye."  As  the 
lantern  is  moved  around,  the  coon's  eye  follows,  and  its 
greenish-yellow  glow  betrays  his  whereabouts. 

"  Dar  he  is!  "  shouted  the  negro  with  the  lantern; 
"  'way  up  higher."  And  there  he  was,  on  the  ex- 
tremity of  a  long  limb.  Old  Ash  climbed  slowly  until 
he  could  stand  on  the  branch  below  and  seize  with  both 
hands  the  limb  that  the  coon  lay  on. 

"Look  out  dar,  now;  hyeh  he  comes!"  Below, 
everybody  kept  perfectly  quiet,  so  that  the  dogs  could 
hear  the  coon  strike  the  ground  if  he  should  sail  over 
their  heads  and  light  in  the  darkness  outside  the  circle 
of  fire.  Ash  shook,  the  coon  dropped  straight,  and  the 
game  little  terriers  leaped  for  him.  Br'er  Coon 
turned  on  his  back,  and  it  was  slap,  bite,  scratch,  and 
tear.  One  little  terrier  was  caught  in  the  nose  and 
spun  around  like  a  top,  howling;  but  he  went  at  it 
again.  For  a  few  minutes  there  was  an  inextricable 
confusion  of  a  brown  body,  snapping  white  teeth,  and 
outshooting  claws,  with  snarling,  leaping  little  black- 
and-tan  terriers,  and  much  low,  fierce  snarling.  The 
coon's  wheezing  snarl  was  curious:  it  had  rage,  whin- 
ing terror,  and  perfect  courage,  all  in  one.     Then 

201 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

came  one  scream,  penetrating  and  piteous,  and  the 
fight  was  done. 

"  Git  him?  "  yelled  Ash  from  up  in  the  tree. 

"  Yep." 

"  "Well,  dar's  anudder  one  up  hyeh.  Watch  out, 
now!  " 

The  branches  rattled,  but  no  coon  dropped,  and  we 
could  hear  Ash  muttering  high  in  the  air,  "  I  bet  ef  I 
had  a  black-snake  whip  I'd  lif  you." 

Then  came  a  pistol-shot.  Ash  had  fired  close  to 
him  to  make  him  jump;  but  Br'er  Coon  lay  close  to 
the  limb,  motionless. 

"  I  got  to  cut  him  off,  I  reckon,"  Ash  called;  and 
whack!  whack!  went-  the  blows  of  his  little  ax. 
"Whoop!" 

The  branch  crackled;  a  dark  body,  flattened,  and 
with  four  feet  outstretched,  came  saiHng  down,  and 
struck  the  earth — thud!  Every  dog  leaped  for  him, 
growling;  every  man  yelled,  and  pressed  close  about 
the  heap  of  writhing  bodies;  and  there  was  pande- 
monium. A  coon  can  fight  eight  dogs  better  than  he 
can  fight  three,  for  the  eight  get  in  one  another's  way. 
Foot  by  foot  the  game  little  beast  fought  his  way  to 
the  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  the  whole  struggling,  snarl- 
ing, snapping  mass  rolled,  with  dislodged  dirt  and 
clattering  stones,  down  to  the  edge  of  the  river,  with 

202 


Brer  Coon  in  Ole  Kentucky 

the  yelling  hunters  slipping  and  sliding  after  them. 
A  great  splash  followed,  and  then  a  sudden  stillness. 
One  dog  followed  the  coon  into  the  water,  and  after  a 
sharp  struggle,  and  a  howl  of  pain,  turned  and  made 
for  the  bank.  It  was  Bulger — the  last  to  give  up  the 
fight.  Br'er  Coon  had  escaped,  and  there  was  hardly 
a  man  who  was  not  glad. 

"  Reckon  Bulger  can  fight,  ef  he  is  a  liar,"  said 
Tray—"  which  he  ain't." 

The  stars  were  sinking  fast,  and  we  had  been  five 
hours  in  the  saddle.  Everybody  was  tired.  Down  in 
a  ravine  young  captain  called  a  halt  when  the  dogs 
failed  to  strike  another  trail.  The  horses  were  tied, 
and  an  enormous  fire  was  built,  and  everybody  gath- 
ered in  a  great  circle  around  it.  Somebody  started  a 
song,  and  there  was  a  jolly  chorus.  A  little  picca- 
ninny was  pushed  into  the  light,  bashful  and 
hesitating. 

"  Shake  yo'  foot,  boy,"  said  old  Ash,  sternly;  and 
the  nimble  feet  were  shaken  to  "  Juba  "  and  "  My 
Baby  Loves  Shortenin'-bread."  It  was  a  scene  worth 
remembering — the  upshooting  flames,  the  giant  shad- 
ows leaping  into  the  dark  woods  about,  the  circle  of 
young  girls  with  flushed  faces  and  loosened  hair,  and 
strapping  young  fellows  cracking  jokes,  singing  songs, 
and  telling  stories. 

203 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

It  was  all  simple  and  genuine,  and  it  pleased  North- 
cott,  who  was  one  of  tlie  many  Northerners  to  whom 
everything  Southern  appeals  strongly — who  had  come 
South  prepared  to  like  everything  Southern:  darkies, 
darky  songs;  Southern  girls.  Southern  songs,  old-fash- 
ioned in  tune  and  sentiment;  Southern  voices,  South- 
ern accent,  Southern  ways ;  the  romance  of  the  life  and 
the  people;  the  pathos  of  the  war  and  its  ruins;  the 
simple,  kindly  hospitality  of  the  Southern  home. 

Nobody  noticed  that  Tray  was  gone,  and  nobody 
but  Tray  had  noticed  that  Bulger  was  the  only  one  of 
the  dogs  that  had  not  gathered  in  to  the  winding  of  old 
Ash's  horn.  A  long  howl  high  on  the  cliff  made 
known  the  absence  of  both.  It  was  Bulger;  and  again 
came  Tray's  remarkable  yell.  Not  an  old  dog  moved. 
Again  came  the  howl,  and  again  the  yell;  and  then 
Tray  was  silent,  though  the  howls  went  on.  Another 
song  was  started,  and  stopped  by  old  Ash,  who  sprang 
to  his  feet.  A  terrific  fight  was  going  on  up  on  the 
cliff.  We  could  hear  Bulger's  growl,  the  unmistak- 
able snarl  of  a  coon,  a  series  of  cheering  yells,  and  the 
cracking  of  branches,  as  though  Tray  were  tumbling 
out  of  a  tree.  Every  dog  leaped  from  the  fire,  and  all 
the  darkies  but  old  Ash  leaped  after  them.  There 
was  a  scramble  up  the  cliff;  and  ten  minutes  later  Tray 
came  into  the  firelight  with  a  coon  in  one  hand,  and 

204 


Br'er  Coon  in  Ole  Kentucky 

poor  Bulger  limping  after  him,  bleeding  at  the  throat, 
and  with  a  long,  bloody  scratch  down  his  belly. 

"  Bulger  treed  him,  an'  I  seed  the  coon  'twixt  me 
an'  the  moon.  I  hollered  fer  you,  an'  you  wouldn't 
come,  so  I  climbed  up  an'  shuk  him  out.  When  I  got 
down  the  coon  was  dead.  Bulger  don't  run  polecats," 
he  said  with  mild  scorn,  and  turned  on  Ash:  "I 
reckon  you'd  better  not  call  Bulger  a  liar  no  more." 
And  the  blood  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  told,  for  Ash  made 
no  answer. 

It  was  toward  morning  now.  Only  one  white  star 
was  hanging  where  the  rest  had  gone  down.  There 
was  a  last  chorus — "  My  Old  Kentucky  Home  " : 

We'll  hunt  no  more  for  the  'possum  an'  the  coon. 

And  then,  at  a  swift  gallop,  we  thundered  ten  miles 
along  the  turnpike — home.  The  crowd  fell  away, 
and  day  broke  as  we  neared  young  captain's  roof. 
The  crows  were  flying  back  from  the  cliffs  to  the  blue- 
grass  fields,  and  the  first  red  light  of  the  sun  was 
shooting  up  the  horizon.  Northcott  was  lifting 
Miriam  from  her  saddle  as  I  rode  into  the  woods;  and 
when  I  reached  the  yard  fence  they  were  seated  on  the 
porch,  as  though  they  meant  to  wait  for  the  sunrise. 
At  the  foot  of  the  apple-tree  were  the  Governor  and 
Black  Eye,  playing  together  like  kittens. 

205 


Civilizing  the  Cumberland 


Civilizing  the  Cumberland 

HALF  a  century  ago  the  Southern  mountaineer 
was  what  he  is  now,  in  the  main — truthful, 
honest,  courageous,  hospitable — and  more: 
he  was  peaceable  and  a  man  of  law.  During  the  last 
fifteen  years,  fact  and  fiction  have  made  his  lawless- 
ness broadly  known ;  and  yet,  in  spite  of  his  moonshin- 
ing,  his  land-thieving,  and  his  feuds,  I  venture  the 
paradox  that  he  still  has  at  heart  a  vast  respect  for  the 
law ;  and  that,  but  for  the  war  that  put  weapons  in  his 
Anglo-Saxon  fists,  murder  in  his  heart,  and  left  him 
in  his  old  isolation;  but  for  the  curse  of  the  revenue 
service  that  criminalizes  the  innocent,  and  the  system 
of  land  laws  that  sometimes  makes  it  necessary  for 
the  mountaineer  of  Kentucky  and  Virginia,  at  least, 
to  practically  steal  his  own  home — he  would  be  a  law- 
abiding  citizen  to-day.  But  he  is  not  law-abiding, 
and,  therefore,  the  caption  above  these  words. 

Of  course,  the  railroad  comes  first  as  an  element  of 
civilization;   but  unless  the  church  and  the  school,  in 

209 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

the  ratio  of  several  schools  to  each  church,  quickly 
follow,  the  railroad  does  the  mountaineer  little  else 
than  great  harm.  Even  with  the  aid  of  these  three, 
the  standards  of  conduct  of  the  outer  world  are  reared 
slowly.  A  painful  process  of  evolution  has  been  the 
history  of  every  little  mountain-town  that  survived 
the  remarkable  mushroom  growth  which,  within  the 
year  of  1889-90,  ran  from  Pennsylvania  to  Alabama 
along  both  bases  of  the  Cumberland.  With  one  vivid 
exception:  in  one  of  these  towns,  civilization  forged 
ahead  of  church,  school,  and  railroad.  The  sternest 
ideals  of  good  order  and  law  were  set  up  at  once  and 
maintained  with  Winchester,  pistol,  policeman's  billy, 
and  whistle.  It  was  a  unique  experiment  in  civiliza- 
tion, and  may  prove  of  value  to  the  lawful  among  the 
lawless  elsewhere;  and  the  means  to  the  end  were 
unique. 

In  this  town,  certain  young  men — chiefly  Virgin- 
ians and  blue-grass  Kentuckians — simply  formed  a 
volunteer  police-guard.  They  enrolled  themselves  as 
county  policemen,  and  each  man  armed  himself — 
usually  with  a  Winchester,  a  revolver,  a  billy,  a  belt, 
a  badge,  and  a  whistle — a  most  important  detail  of 
the  accoutrement,  since  it  was  used  to  call  for  help. 
They  were  lawyers,  bankers,  real-estate  brokers,  news- 
paper men,   civil  and  mining  engineers,  geologists, 

2IO 


Civilizing  the  Cumberland 

speculators,  and  several  men  of  leisure.  Nearly  all 
were  in  active  business — as  long  as  there  was  business 
— and  most  of  them  were  college  graduates,  represent- 
ing Harvard,  Yale,  Princeton,  the  University  of  Vir- 
ginia, and  other  Southern  colleges.  Two  were  great- 
grandsons  of  Henry  Clay,  several  bore  a  like  relation 
to  Kentucky  governors,  and,  with  few  exceptions,  the 
guard  represented  the  best  people  of  the  blue-grass  of 
one  State  and  the  tide-water  country  of  the  other. 
All  served  without  pay,  of  course,  and,  in  other  words, 
it  was  practically  a  police-force  of  gentlemen  who  did 
the  rough,  every-day  work  of  policemen,  without  swerv- 
ing a  hair's-breadth  from  the  plain  line  of  the  law. 
These  young  fellows  guarded  the  streets,  day  and 
night,  when  there  was  need ;  they  made  arrests,  chased 
and  searched  for  criminals,  guarded  jails  against  mobs, 
cracked  toughs  over  the  head  with  billies,  lugged  them 
to  the  "  calaboose,"  and  appeared  as  witnesses  against 
them  in  court  next  morning.  They  drilled  faithfully, 
and  such  was  the  discipline  that  a  whistle  blown  at 
any  hour  of  day  or  night  would  bring  a  dozen  armed 
men  to  the  spot  in  half  as  many  minutes.  In  time,  a 
drunken  man  was  a  rare  sight  on  the  streets;  the  quiet 
was  rarely  disturbed  by  a  disorderly  yell  or  a  pistol- 
shot,  and  I  have  seen  a  crowd  of  mountaineers,  wildly 
hilarious  and  flourishing  bottles  and  pistols  as  they 

211 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

came  in  from  the  hills,  take  on  the  meekness  of  lambs 
when  they  crossed  the  limits  of  that  little  mountain- 
town.  I  do  not  believe  better  order  was  kept  anywhere 
in  the  land.  It  was,  perhaps,  the  only  mountain-town 
along  the  border  where  a  feud,  or  a  street  fight  of 
more  than  ten  minutes'  duration,  was  impossible.  Be- 
ing county  policemen,  the  guards  extended  their 
operations  to  the  limits  of  the  county,  thirty  miles 
away,  and  in  time  created  a  public  sentiment  fearless 
enough  to  convict  a  certain  desperado  of  murder;  then 
each  man  left  his  business  and,  in  a  body,  the  force 
went  -to  the  county-seat,  twenty  miles  away,  and  stayed 
there  for  a  month  to  guard  the  condemned  man  and 
prevent  his  clan  from  rescuing  him — thus  making  pos- 
sible the  first  hanging  that  ever  took  place  in  that 
region.  Later,  they  maintained  a  fund  for  the  proper 
prosecution  of  criminals,  and  I  believe  that  any  man 
in  the  county,  if  guilty  of  manslaughter,  would  have 
selected  any  spot  south  of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line 
other  than  his  own  county-seat  for  his  trial.  Indeed, 
the  enthusiasm  for  the  law  was  curiously  contagious. 
Wild  fellows,  who  would  have  been  desperadoes  them- 
selves but  for  the  vent  that  enforcing  the  law  gave 
to  their  energies,  became  the  most  enthusiastic  mem- 
bers of  the  guard.  In  other  parts  of  the  county,  natives 
formed  similar  bands  and  searched  for  outlaws.    Sim- 

212 


Civilizing  the  Cumberland 

ilar  organizations  were  formed  in  other  "  boom  "  towns 
round  about ;  so  that  over  in  the  Kentucky  mountains, 
a  hundred  miles  away,  there  is  to-day  another  volunteer 
police-guard  at  the  seat  of  what  was  perhaps  the  most 
lawless  county  in  the  State,  and  once  the  seat  of  a  des- 
perate feud.  This  was  formed  at  the  suggestion  of  one 
of  our  own  men,  a  young  and  well-known  geologist. 
So  that,  at  that  time,  it  looked  as  though  the  force  that 
might  one  day  put  down  lawlessness  in  the  Southern 
mountains  was  getting  its  impulse  from  the  nerve,  good 
sense,  and  public  spirit  of  two  or  three  young  blue- 
grass  Kentuckians  who  had  gone  over  into  the  moun- 
tains of  Virginia  to  make  their  fortunes  from  iron, 
coal,  and  law. 

For  all  this  happened  at  "  the  Gap,"  which  is  down 
in  the  southwestern  comer  of  old  Virginia,  and  about 
eight  miles  from  the  Kentucky  line.  There  Powell's 
Mountain  runs  its  mighty  ribs  into  the  Cumberland 
range  with  such  humiliating  violence  that  the  Cumber- 
land, turned  feet  over  head  by  the  shock,  has  meekly 
given  up  its  proud  title  and  suffered  somebody  to  dub 
it  plain  Stone  Mountain;  and  plain  Stone  Mountain  it 
is  to-day — down  sixty  miles  to  Cumberland  Gap.  At 
the  point  of  contact  and  from  the  bases  of  both  ranges, 
Powell's  Valley  starts  on  its  rolling  way  southward. 
Ten  miles  below.  Roaring  Fork  has  worn  down  to 

213 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

water-level  a  wild  cleft  through  Stone  Mountain  and 
into  the  valley;  and  the  torrent  is  still  lashing  the 
yielding  feet  of  gi'eat  cliffs  and  tumbling  past  ravines 
that  are  dark  in  winter  with  the  evergreen  of  laurel 
and  rhododendron,  and  lighted  in  summer  with  the 
bloom. 

On  the  other  side,  South  Fork  drops  seven  hundred 
feet  of  waterfalls  from  Thunderstruck  Knob,  and  the 
two  streams  sweep  toward  each  other  like  the  neck 
of  a  lute  and,  like  a  lute,  curve  away  again,  to  come 
together  at  last  and  bear  the  noble  melody  of  Powell's 
River  down  the  valley.  The  neck  is  not  over  two  hun- 
dred yards  wide,  and,  in  the  heartlike  peninsula  and 
from  ten  to  twenty  feet  above  the  running  streams,  is 
the  town — all  straightaway,  but  for  the  beautiful  rise 
of  Poplar  Hill,  which  sinks  slowly  to  a  level  again. 

All  this — cleft,  river,  and  little  town — is  known  far 
and  wide  as  "  the  Gap."  Through' the  Gap  and  on  the 
north  side  of  Stone  Mountain,  are  rich  veins  of  pure 
coking  coal  and  not  an  ounce  of  iron  ore ;  to  the  south 
is  plenty  of  good  ore  and  not  an  ounce  of  coal ;  the  cliffa 
between  are  limestone;  and  water — the  third  essential 
to  the  making  of  iron — runs  like  a  mill-race  between. 
This  juxtaposition  of  such  raw  materials  brought  in 
the  outside  world.  N^early  twenty  years  ago,  a  wise 
old  Pennsylvanian  bought  an  empire  of  coal  and  tim- 

214 


Civilizing  the  Cumberland 

ber-land  through  the  Gap.  Ten  years  ago  the  shadow 
of  the  "  boom  "  started  southward — for  the  boom  is  a 
shadow,  and  whatever  of  light  there  be  in  it  is  as  a 
flash  of  lightning,  and  with  a  wake  hardly  less  destruc- 
tive. The  Gap  was  strategic,  and  there  was  no  such 
site  for  a  town  in  a  radius  of  a  hundred  miles.  Twelve 
railroads  were  surveyed  to  the  point,  and  in  poured 
the  outside  world  to  make  the  town — civil  and  mining 
engineers,  surveyors,  coal  operators,  shrewd  investors, 
reckless  speculators,  land-sharks;  lawyers,  doctors, 
store-keepers,  real-estate  agents;  curb-stone  brokers, 
saloon-keepers,  gamblers,  card-sharps,  railroad  hands — 
all  the  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  the  terrible  boom. 

The  Kentuckians  came  first,  and  two  young  lawyers 
— Logan  and  Macfarlan  I  shall  call  them — blazed  the 
way;  one,  for  the  same  reason,  perhaps,  that  led  his 
forefather,  Henry  Clay,  to  Kentucky;  the  other,  who 
was  of  a  race  of  pioneers,  Indian-fighters,  lawyers,  and 
statesmen,  because  he  was,  in  a  measure,  a  reversal  to 
the  first  ancestor  who  penetrated  the  Western  wilder- 
ness. Indeed  they  and  the  young  Kentuckians,  who 
came  after  them,  took  the  same  trail  that  their  fathers 
had  taken  from  Virginia — going  to  make  their  for- 
tunes from  lands  that  the  pioneers  had  passed  over  as 
worthless.  It  was  these  two  young  men  who  took  the 
helm  of  affairs  and  ran  the  town — as  a  steersman 

215 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

rims  a  ship — into  the  calm  waters  of  good  order  and 
law. 

It  was  quiet  enough  in  the  beginning,  for,  besides 
the  cottage  set  in  rhododendron-bushes  along  the  deep 
bank  of  South  Fork — and  turned  into  a  lawyer's  office 
— there  was  only  a  blacksmith's  shop,  one  store,  one 
farm-house,  and  a  little  frame  hotel — "  The  Grand 
Central  Hotel."  But,  for  half  a  century,  the  Gap  had 
been  the  chief  voting-place  in  the  district.  Here  were 
the  muster-days  of  war-times,  and  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Gap  camped  Captain  Mayhall  Wells  and  his  famous 
Army  of  the  Callahan.  Here  was  the  only  store,  the 
only  grist-mill,  the  only  woollen-mill,  in  the  region. 
The  Gap  was,  in  consequence,  the  chief  gathering- 
place  of  people  for  miles  around.  Here  in  the  old  days 
met  the  bullies  of  neighboring  counties,  and  here  was 
fought  a  famous  battle  between  a  famous  bully  of  Wise 
and  a  famous  bully  of  Lee.  Only,  in  those  days,  the 
men  fought  with  nature's  weapons — with  all  of  them 
— and,  after  the  fight,  got  up  and  shook  hands. 
Here,  too,  was  engendered  the  hostility  between  the 
hill-dwellers  of  Wise  and  the  valley  men  of  Lee;  so 
that  the  Gap  had  ever  been  characterized  by  a  fine 
spirit  of  personal  liberty,  and  any  wild  oats  that  were 
not  sown  elsewhere  in  that  region,  usually  sprouted  at 
the  Gap.     So,  too,  when  the  boom  started,  the  new- 

216 


Civilizing  the  Cumberland 

comers,  disliked  on  their  own  account  as  interlop- 
ers, shared  this  local  hostility,  which  got  expression 
usually  on  Saturday  afternoons  in  the  exhilaration  of 
moonshine,  much  yelling  and  shooting  and  banter- 
ing, an  occasional  fist-fight,  and,  sometimes,  in  a 
usually  harmless  interchange  of  shots.  But  it  was 
the  mountain-brother  who  gave  the  Kentuckians  most 
trouble  at  first.  Sometimes  the  Kentucky  feudsmen 
would  chase  each  other  over  Black  Mountain  and  into 
the  Gap.  Sometimes  a  band  of  them  on  horseback — 
"  wild  jayhawkers  from  old  Kanetuck,"  they  used  to 
be  called — would  be  passing  through  to  "  Commence- 
ment "  at  a  mountain-college  down  the  valley,  and 
there  would  be  high  jinks  indeed.  They  would  halt 
at  the  Gap  and  "  load  up,"  as  the  phrase  was — with 
moonshine;  usually  it  was  a  process  of  reloading. 
Then  they  would  race  their  horses  up  and  down  the 
street. 

Sometimes  they  would  quite  take  the  town,  and  the 
store-keepers  would  close  up  and  go  to  the  woods  to 
wait  for  the  festivities  to  come  to  a  natural  end.  This 
was  endured  because  it  was  only  periodical,  and  be- 
cause, apparently,  it  couldn't  be  cured. 

Later  on,  after  the  speculators  had  pooled  their  lands 
and  laid  out  the  coming  town,  and  the  human  stream 
began  to  trickle  in  from  the  outer  world,  an  enterpris- 

217 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

ing  Hoosier  came  in  and  established  a  brick-plant.  He 
employed  a  crowd  of  Tennessee  mountaineers,  wbo 
worked  with  their  pistols  buckled  around  them.  By 
and  by  came  a  strike,  and,  that  night,  the  hands  shot 
out  the  lights  and  punctured  the  chromos  in  the  board- 
ing-house. Then  they  got  sticks,  clubs,  knives,  and 
pistols,  and  marched  up  through  town,  intimidating 
and  threatening. 

Verbal,  the  town  constable,  tackled  one  of  them 
valiantly,  shouting  at  the  same  time  for  help.  For  ten 
minutes  he  shouted  and  fought,  and  then,  once  again, 
his  voice  rose :  "  I've  fit  an'  I've  hollered  fer  help,"  he 
cried,  "  an'  I've  hollered  fer  help  an'  I've  fit — an'  I've 
fit  agin.  Kow  this  town  can  go  to  h — 1."  And  he 
tore  off  his  badge  and  threw  it  on  the  ground,  and  went 
off,  weeping. 

Next  morning,  which  was  Sunday,  the  brick-yard 
gang  took  another  triumphant  march  through  town, 
and  when  they  went  back,  Logan  and  Macfarlan,  his 
partner,  called  for  volunteers  to  go  down  and  put  the 
whole  crowd  under  arrest.  To  Logan's  disgust,  only  a 
few  seemed  willing  to  go,  but  when  the  few,  who 
would  go,  started,  Logan,  leading  them,  looked  back 
from  the  top  of  Poplar  Hill,  and  the  whole  town 
seemed  to  be  strung  out  behind  him.  Below  the  hill, 
he  saw  the  toughs  drawn  up  in  two  bodies  for  battle, 

218 


Civilizing  the  Cumberland 

and,  as  he  led  the  young  fellows  toward  them,  the 
Hoosier  rode  out  at  a  gallop,  waving  his  hands  and 
beside  himself  with  anxiety  and  terror. 

"Don't!  don't!"  he  shouted.  "  Somebody'll  get 
killed.  Wait — they'll  give  up!  "  So  Logan  halted 
and  the  Hoosier  rode  back.  After  a  short  parley,  he 
came  up  to  say  that  the  strikers  would  give  up,  and 
when  Logan  started  again,  one  party  dropped  their 
clubs,  put  up  their  weapons,  and  sullenly  waited,  but 
the  rest  broke  and  ran.  Logan  ordered  a  pursuit,  but 
only  three  or  four  were  captured.  That  night  the 
Hoosier  was  delirious  over  his  troubles,  and,  next  day, 
he  left  orders  with  his  foreman  to  close  down  the  plant, 
and  rode  off  to  await  the  passing  of  the  storm.  But 
the  incident  started  the  idea  of  a  volunteer  police-guard 
in  Logan's  head.  A  few  days  later  it  took  definite 
shape.  Constable  Verbal  had  resigned;  he  had  been 
tired  for  some  time,  and  wholly  inefficient,  for  when 
he  arrested  an  outsider,  the  prisoner's  companions 
would  calmly  rescue  him  and  take  him  home;  so  that 
the  calaboose — as  we  called  the  log-cabin  jail,  weakly 
stockaded  and  with  a  thin-walled  guard-room  adjoin- 
ing— was  steadily  as  empty  as  a  gourd. 

A  few  nights  later,  trouble  came  up  in  the  chief 
store  of  the  town.  Two  knives  and  two  pistols  were 
whipped  out,  and  the  proprietor  blew  out  the  light  and 

219 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

astutely  got  under  the  counter.  When  the  combatants 
scrambled  outside,  he  locked  the  door  and  crawled  out 
the  back  window.  The  next  morning  a  courageous, 
powerful  fellow  named  Youell  took  up  Verbal's  badge 
and  his  office,  and  that  afternoon  he  had  some  pro- 
fessional service  to  perform  in  the  same  store.  A  local 
tough  was  disorderly,  and  Youell  warned  him. 

"  You  can't  arrest  me,"  said  the  fellow,  with  an 
oath,  but  before  his  lips  closed,  Youell  had  him  by  the 
collar.  His  friends  drew  up  in  a  line  and  threatened 
to  kill  the  constable  if  he  went  through.  Youell  had 
not  spoken  a  word  and,  without  a  word  now,  he  pushed 
through,  hauling  his  man  after  him. 

The  friends  followed  close  with  knives  and  pistols 
drawn,  cursing  and  swearing  that  the  man  should  not 
be  jailed.  The  constable  was  white,  silent,  and  firm, 
but  he  had  to  stop  in  front  of  the  little  law  office  where 
Logan  happened  to  be  looking  out  of  the  window. 
Logan  went  to  the  door. 

"  Look  here,  boys,"  he  said,  quietly,  and  with  the 
tone  of  the  peacemaker,  "  let's  not  have  any  row. 
Let  him  go  on  to  the  Mayor's  office.  If  he  isn't  guilty, 
the  Mayor  will  let  him  go;  and  if  he  is,  the  Mayor  will 
let  him  give  bond.  There's  no  use  having  a  row.  Let 
him  go  on." 

Now  Logan,  to  the  casual  eye,  appeared  no  more 
220 


Civilizing  the  Cumberland 

than  the  ordinary  man,  and  even  a  close  observer  would 
have  seen  no  more  than  that  his  face  was  thoughtful, 
that  his  eye  was  blue  and  singularly  clear  and  fearless, 
and  that  he  was  calm  with  a  calmness  that  might  come 
from  anything  else  than  stolidity  of  temperament — and 
that,  by  the  way,  is  the  self-control  which  counts  most 
against  the  unruly  passions  of  other  men — but  any- 
body near  Logan,  at  a  time  when  excitement  was  high 
and  a  crisis  was  imminent,  would  have  felt  the  result- 
ant of  forces  emanating  from  the  man,  that  were  be- 
yond analysis. 

I  have  known  one  other  man — his  partner,  Macfar- 
lan — to  possess  an  even  finer  quality  of  courage,  since 
it  sprang  wholly  from  absolute  fearlessness  and  a  Puri- 
tanical sense  of  duty,  and  was  not  aided  by  Logan's 
pure  love  of  conflict,  but  I  have  never  seen  another 
man  in  whom  this  curious  power  over  rough  men  was 
so  marked. 

"  Go  on,  Youell,"  said  Logan,  more  quietly  than 
ever;  and  Youell  went  on  with  his  prisoner — his 
friends  following,  still  swearing,  and  with  their  weap- 
ons still  in  their  hands.  "When  the  constable  and  the 
prisoner  stepped  into  the  Mayor's  office,  Logan  stepped 
quickly  after  them  and  turned  on  the  threshold,  with 
his  arm  across  the  door.  "  Hold  on,  boys,"  he  said, 
still  good-naturedly;  ''  the  Mayor  can  attend  to  this. 

221 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

If  you  boys  want  to  fight  anybody,  fight  me.  I'm  un- 
armed and  you  can  whip  me  easily  enough,"  he  added, 
with  a  laugh,  for  he  knew  that  passion  can  sometimes 
be  turned  with  a  jest,  and  that  sometimes  rowdies  are 
glad  to  turn  matters  into  a  jest  when  they  are  getting 
too  serious.  "  But  you  mustn't  come  in  here,"  he  said, 
as  though  the  thing  were  settled  beyond  further  dis- 
cussion. For  one  instant — the  crucial  one,  of  course 
— the  men  hesitated,  for  the  reason  that  so  often  makes 
superior  numbers  of  no  avail  among  the  lawless — the 
lack  of  a  leader  of  nerve — and  Logan  held  the  door 
without  another  word.  But  the  Mayor,  inside,  being 
badly  frightened,  let  the  prisoner  out  at  once  on  bond, 
and  Logan  went  on  the  bond.  Greatly  disgusted,  the 
Kentuckian  went  back  to  his  office,  and  then  and  there 
he  and  his  partner  formed  the  nucleus  of  an  organiza- 
tion that,  so  far  as  I  know,  has  never  had  its  parallel. 
There  have  been  gentlemen  regulators  a-plenty;  vigil- 
ance committees  of  gentlemen;  the  Ku-Klux  Klan  was 
originally  composed  of  gentlemen;  but  I  have  never 
heard  of  another  police-guard  of  gentlemen  who  did 
the  every-day  work  of  the  policeman,  and  hewed  with 
precision  to  the  line  of  town  ordinance  and  common 
law.  The  organization  was  military  in  character.  The 
men  began  drilling  and  target-shooting  at  once.  Of 
course,  Logan  was  captain;    his  partner,  Macfarlan, 

222 


Civilizing  the  Cumberland 

was  first  lieutenant;  a  Virginian  who  had  lost  an  arm 
in  Pickett's  charge  at  Gettysburg  was  second  lieuten- 
ant, and  a  brother  of  mine  was  third. 

From  the  beginning,  times  were  lively,  and  the  wise 
captain  straightway  laid  down  two  inflexible  rules  for 
the  guards.  One  was  never  to  draw  a  pistol  at  all,  im- 
less  necessary;  never  pretend  to  draw  one  as  a  threat 
or  to  intimidate,  and  never  to  draw  unless  one  meant 
to  shoot,  if  need  be ;  the  other  was  always  to  go  in  force 
to  make  an  arrest.  This  was  not  only  proper  discretion 
as  far  as  the  safety  of  the  guard  was  concerned,  though 
that  consideration  was  little  thought  of  at  the  time, 
but  it  showed  a  knowledge  of  mountain-character  and 
was  extraordinarily  good  sense.  It  saved  the  wounded 
pride  of  the  mountaineer — which  is  morbid.  It  would 
hurt  him  unspeakably  to  have  to  go  home  and  confess 
that  one  man  had  put  him  in  the  calaboose,  but  he 
would  not  mind  telling  at  all  how  he  was  set  upon 
and  overpowered  by  several.  It  was  a  tribute  to  his 
prowess,  too,  that  so  many  were  thought  necessary. 
Again,  he  would  usually  give  in  to  several  without  re- 
sistance; whereas  he  would  look  upon  the  approach  of 
one  man  as  a  personal  issue  and  to  be  met  as  such. 
This  precaution  saved  much  bloodshed,  and  no  mem- 
ber of  the  guard  failed  to  have  opportunities  a-plenty 
to  show  what  he  could  do  alone. 

223 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

The  first  problem  was  moonshine  and  its  faithful 
ally— "the  blind  tiger."  The  "tiger"  is  a  little 
shantj  with  an  ever-open  mouth — a  hole  in  the  door 
like  a  post-office  window.  You  place  your  money  on 
the  sill,  and  at  the  ring  of  the  coin  a  mysterious  arm 
emerges  from  the  hole,  sweeps  the  money  away,  and 
leaves  a  bottle  of  white  whiskey.  Thus  you  see  no- 
body's face ;  and  thus  the  owner  of  the  beast  is  safe, 
and  so  are  you — which  you  might  not  be  if  you  saw 
and  told.  In  every  little  hollow  about  the  Gap  a  tiger 
had  his  lair,  and  these  were  all  bearded  at  once  by  a 
petition  to  the  county  judge  for  high-license  saloons, 
which  was  granted.  This  measure  drove  the  tigers  out 
of  business  and  concentrated  moonshine  in  the  heart  of 
the  town,  where  its  devotees  were  under  easy  guard. 

Then  town  ordinances  were  passed.  The  wild  cen- 
taurs were  not  allowed  to  ride  up  and  down  the  plank 
walks  with  their  reins  in  their  teeth  and  firing  a  pistol 
into  the  ground  with  either  hand;  they  could  punctu- 
ate the  hotel-sign  no  more;  they  could  not  ride  at  a 
fast  gallop  through  the  streets  of  the  town,  and — Lost 
Spirit  of  American  Liberty — they  could  not  even  yell ! 
Now  when  the  mountaineer  cannot  banter  with  a  pis- 
tol-shot and  a  yell,  he  feels  hardly  used  indeed.  The 
limit  of  indignity  was  reached  when  nobody  but  a 
policeman  was  allowed  to  blow  a  whistle  within  the 

224 


Civilizing  the  Cumberland 

limits  of  the  town,  for  the  very  good  reason  that  it 
might  be  mistaken  for  a  policeman's  call  and  cause 
unnecessary  excitement  and  exertion;  or  it  might  not 
be  known  for  a  policeman's  call  when  he  was  really  in 
need  of  help.  This  ordinance  was  suggested  by  Mac- 
farlan,  who  blew  his  whistle  one  night,  and  without 
waiting  for  anybody  to  answer  it,  put  two  drunken 
Swedes  under  arrest.  The  call  was  not  answered  at 
once,  and  Macfarlan  had  no  time  or  opportunity  to 
blow  again — he  was  too  busy  reducing  the  Swedes  to 
subjection  with  his  fists.  Assistance  came  just  in  time 
to  prevent  them  from  reducing  him. 

These  ordinances  arrayed  the  town  people  against 
the  country  folks,  w^ho  thought  the  town  was  doing 
what  it  pleased  to  prevent  tlie  country  from  doing  any- 
thing that  it  pleased;  they  stirred  up  the  latent  spirit 
of  the  county  feud,  and  they  crystallized  the  most 
stubborn  antagonism  with  which  the  guard  had  to  deal 
— hostility  in  the  adjoining  county  of  Lee. 

It  was  curious  to  note  that  with  each  element  of 
disorder  there  was  a  climax  of  incident  that  established 
the  recognized  authority  of  the  guard. 

After  the  shutting  down  of  the  brick-yard,  its  mis- 
chief was  merely  merged  into  the  general  deviltry  of 
the  town,  which  was  naturally  concentrated  in  the 
high-license  saloons,  under  the  leadership  of  one  Jack 

225 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

Woods,  whose  local  power  for  evil  and  cackling  laugK 
seemed  to  mean  nothing  else  than  close  personal  com- 
munion with  Old  Nick  himself.  It  was  "  nuts  "  to 
Jack  to  have  some  drunken  customer  blow  a  whistle 
and  then  stand  in  his  door  and  laugh  at  the  policemen 
running  in  from  all  directions.  One  day  Jack  tried  it 
himself  and  Logan  ran  down. 

"  Wlio  did  that? "  he  asked.  Jack  felt  bold  that 
morning.  "  I  blowed  it."  Logan  thought  for  a  mo- 
ment. The  ordinance  against  blowing  a  whistle  had 
not  been  passed,  but  he  made  up  his  mind  that,  under 
the  circumstances,  Jack's  blowing  was  a  breach  of  the 
peace,  since  the  guard  had  adopted  that  signal.  So 
he  said,  "  You  mustn't  do  that  again." 

Jack  had  doubtless  been  going  through  precisely 
the  same  mental  process,  and,  on  the  nice  legal  point 
involved,  he  seemed  to  differ. 

"  I'll  blow  it  when  I  damn  please,"  he  said. 

"  Blow  it  again  and  I'll  arrest  you,"  said  Logan. 
Jack  blew.  He  had  his  right  shoulder  against  the  cor- 
ner of  his  door  at  the  time,  and,  when  he  raised  the 
whistle  to  his  lips,  Logan  drew  and  covered  him  before 
he  could  make  another  move.  Woods  backed  slowly 
into  his  saloon  to  get  behind  his  counter.  Logan  saw 
his  purpose,  and  he  closed  in,  taking  great  risk,  as  he 
always  did,  to  avoid  bloodshed,  and  there  was  a  strug- 

226 


Civilizing  the  Cumberland 

gle.  Jack  managed  to  get  his  pistol  out,  but  Logan 
caught  him  by  the  wrist  and  held  the  weapon  away 
so  that  it  was  harmless  as  far  as  he  was  concerned ;  but 
a  crowd  was  gathering  at  the  door  toward  which  the 
saloon-keeper's  pistol  was  pointed,  and  he  feared  that 
somebody  out  there  might  be  shot;   so  he  called  out: 

"Drop  that  pistol!  " 

The  order  was  not  obeyed,  and  Logan  raised  his 
right  hand  high  above  Jack's  head  and  dropped  the 
butt  of  his  weapon  on  Jack's  *skull — hard.  Jack's 
head  dropped  back  between  his  shoulders,  his  eyes 
closed,  and  his  pistol  clicked  on  the  floor.  A  blow  is 
a  pretty  serious  thing  in  that  part  of  the  world,  and 
it  created  great  excitement.  Logan  himself  was  un- 
easy at  Jack's  trial,  for  fear  that  the  saloon-keeper's 
friends  would  take  the  matter  up;  but  they  didn't, 
and,  to  the  sui*prise  of  everybody.  Jack  quietly  paid 
his  fine,  and,  thereafter,  the  guard  had  little  active 
trouble  with  Jack,  though  he  remained  always  one 
of  its  bitterest  enemies.  This  incident  made  the  guard 
master  of  the  Gap,  and  another  extended  its  reputa- 
tion outside. 

The  Howard-Turner  feud  was  mildly  active  at  that 
time  over  in  the  Kentucky  Mountains  not  far  away, 
and  in  the  county  of  Harlan.  One  morning,  a  How- 
ard who  had  killed  a  Turner  fled  from  the  mountains 

227 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

and  reached  the  Gap,  where  he  was  wrongly  suspected, 
arrested  as  a  horse-thief,  and  put  in  the  calaboose.  A 
band  of  Turners  followed  him  and  demanded  that  he 
should  be  given  up  to  them.  Knowing  that  the  man 
would  be  killed,  Logan  refused,  and  deputed  a  brother 
of  mine — the  third  lieutenant — to  take  the  Howard 
for  safekeeping  to  the  county  jail,  twenty  miles  dis- 
tant. As  the  Turners  were  armed  only  with  pistols,  the 
third  lieutenant  armed  his  men  with  shot-guns,  heavily 
loaded  with  buckshot,  for  he  knew  that  mountaineers 
have  no  love  for  shot-guns.  When  the  guards  ap- 
proached the  calaboose,  the  Turners  were  waiting  with 
their  big  pistols  drawn  and  ready  to  start  the  fight  when 
the  Howard  should  be  taken  out.  But  when  George 
Turner,  the  leader — a  tall,  good-looking,  and  rather 
chivalrous  young  fellow,  whose  death  soon  afterward 
ended  the  feud  for  a  while — saw  the  shot-guns,  he 
called  a  halt. 

"  Men,"  he  said,  quietly,  but  so  that  any  could  hear 
who  wished,  "  you  know  that  I  never  back  down,  and 
if  you  say  so  we'll  have  him  or  die,  but  we  are  not  in 
our  own  State  now ;  they've  got  the  law  and  the  shot- 
guns on  us,  and  we'd  better  go  slow."  The  rest  readily 
agreed  to  go  slow;  so  they  put  up  their  pistols  and 
watched  the  Howard  and  his  guards  ride  away.  I^ext 
day  some  of  the  guard  and  two  or  three  Turners  inter- 

228 


Civilizing  the  Cumberland 

changed  courtesies  at  pool-table  and  bar.  It  was  the 
first  time,  perhaps,  up  to  that  time,  that  the  law  had 
ever  proved  a  serious  obstacle  to  either  faction  in  the 
gratification  of  personal  revenge,  and  it  seemed  to 
make  an  impression,  judging  from  the  threats  of  ven- 
geance that  the  third  lieutenant  got  later  from  Harlan, 
and  the  fact  that  there  was  no  more  trouble  from  the 
"  wild  jayhawkers  of  old  Kanetuck." 

But  the  chief  trouble  was  with  bad  men  far  down 
the  valley.  It  looked  to  these  as  though  the  guard  was 
making  up  trifGng  excuses  to  get  them  in  the  calaboose, 
and  when  they  discovered  that  they  would  always  be  ar- 
rested and  fined  if  caught  riding  across  the  side  board- 
walks, or  blowing  whistles,  or  shooting  off  their  pistols, 
or  racing  their  horses  through  the  streets,  they  got  to 
waiting  until  they  were  mounted  and  ready  to  go  home 
before  they  started  their  mischief.  Then  they  would 
ride  at  full  tilt,  doing  everything  they  could  that  was 
forbidden.  Logan  broke  up  this  cunning  game  by 
keeping  horses  saddled  and  ready  for  pursuit,  and  there 
were  many  and  exciting  chases  down  the  valley.  After 
several  prominent  mischief-makers  were  jailed,  to  their 
great  mortification  (for  your  bad  man  usually  weeps 
copiously  when  he  is  captured — from  rage  as  well  as 
shame),  this,  too,  was  stopped.  But  great  bitterness 
was  the  result,  and  some  individual  hostility  was  de- 

229 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

veloped  that  resulted  in  several  so-called  "  marked 
men  "  ;  that  is,  certain  prominent  members  of  the 
guard  were  picked  out  by  the  bad  men  for  especial  at- 
tention if  a  general  fight  should  come  up,  and  I  believe 
that  with  several  of  these  marked  men,  human  nature 
so  far  got  the  better  of  an  abstract  motive  for  order 
and  law  that  the  compliment  was  heartily  returned. 
Some  of  the  best  and  some  of  the  worst  were  those 
to  be  in  most  danger.  Even  a  day  was  fiLxed  for  the 
evening  up  of  old  scores — a  political  gathering  on  the 
day  that  Senator  Mahone  was  the  speaker,  and  on  that 
day  the  clash  came,  the  story  of  which  cannot  be  told 
here.  After  this  clash  came  the  boom  swiftly,  and 
the  guard  increased  in  numbers  and  prestige.  It  not 
only  unified  the  best  element  of  the  town,  but  it  had 
a  strong  influence  for  good  on  the  members  themselves 
who  were  young  and  hot-blooded.  Naturally  a  mem- 
ber of  the  guard  was  morally  bound  not  to  do  anything 
for  which  he  would  arrest  another  man.  If  a  guard 
was  unwisely  indulgent  he  was  taken  to  his  room  and 
kept  there — a  privilege  that  was  allowed  the  friends 
of  any  drunken  man,  if  he  was  taken  out  of  town  be- 
fore he  got  into  mischief.  Many  fights,  and  even  sev- 
eral duels,  were  avoided  by  the  new  sense  of  personal 
consistency  developed  by  the  duties  of  the  guard. 
Once,  for  instance,  when  the  boom  was  at  its  height, 

230 


Civilizing  the  Cumberland 

Logan  determined  to  break  up  the  gambling-houses 
of  the  town.  Many  of  the  guard  were  inveterate  poker- 
players  ;  so  Logan  merely  took  around  an  agreement  to 
cease  poker — signed  by  himself,  and  pointing  out  the 
inconsistency  otherwise  involved  in  the  proposed  raid. 
Every  man  signed  it,  stopped  playing,  and  gambling 
for  the  time  was  broken  up  in  town.  By  and  by,  some 
of  the  men  down  the  valley  began  to  see  that  the  guard 
had  no  personal  hostility  to  gratify,  and  that,  if  they 
came  to  town  and  behaved  themselves,  they  would 
never  be  bothered.  And  they  saw  that  the  guard  was  as 
quick  to  arrest  one  of  its  own  men  as  an  outsider,  and 
that  it  was  strictly  impartial  in  the  discharge  of  its 
duties.  This  became  evident  when  the  j  oiliest  and 
most  popular  man  in  town  was  put  in  the  calaboose  by 
his  friends  (he  has  never  touched  a  drop  of  liquor 
since) ;  when  a  guard  drew  his  Winchester  on  his  blood 
cousin  and  made  him  behave;  and  when  another  put 
his  own  brother  under  arrest.  So  local  hostility  died 
down  slowly,  and  the  guard  even  became  popular. 
Membership  was  eagerly  sought  and  often  denied,  and 
the  force  numbered  a  hundred  men. 

At  last,  it  began  to  extend  its  operations  and  make 
expeditions  out  into  the  mountains  to  break  up  gangs 
of  desperadoes.  Once  it  fortified  itself  in  the  county 
court-house,  cut  port-holes  through  the  walls,  put  the 

231 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

town  under  martial  law,  and  guarded  tlie  jail  night 
and  day  to  prevent  a  Kentucky  mountain-clan  from 
rescuing  a  murderer  who  had  been  convicted  and  sen- 
tenced to  death;  and  they  stayed  there  a  month  till 
the  law  was  executed,  and  the  first  man  ever  hung  in 
the  region  met  death  on  the  gallows. 

After  this,  its  work  was  about  done,  but  incidents 
like  the  following  continued  for  a  year  or  two  to  be 
common : 

One  night,  I  saw,  or  rather  heard,  one  of  the  guard, 
who  is  now  the  youngest  of  the  nine  Board  of  Visitors 
of  the  University  of  Virginia,  go  over  a  cliff  thirty 
feet  high  and  down  into  Roaring  Fork  with  the  leader 
of  the  brick-yard  gang  locked  in  his  arms.  The  water 
was  rather  shallow,  and  luckily  the  policeman  fell  on 
top.  Three  of  the  tough's  ribs  were  broken,  and  we 
had  to  carry  him  to  the  calaboose,  whence  he  escaped, 
with  the  aid  of  his  sweetheart,  who  handed  him  in  a 
saw  and  a  file ;  so  that  we  had  another  chase  after  him, 
later,  and  again  he  ran  into  the  river,  and  again,  by 
the  aid  of  his  sweetheart,  he  made  his  final  escape. 

While  the  church-bells  were  ringing  one  morning, 
a  drunken  fellow  came  into  town,  picked  up  a  stone 
from  the  street,  and  deliberately  beat  out  a  pane  of 
glass  in  the  door  of  the  hardware^tore  so  that  he  would 
not  cut  himself  when  he  crawled  in.     Macfarlan  ran 

232 


Civilizing  the  Cumberland 

up  in  answer  to  the  cry  of  a  small  boy,  looked  In,  and, 
being  without  any  weapon,  got  a  poker  from  the  club, 
next  door.  The  tough  had  two  butcher-knives  out  on 
the  show-case,  one  revolver  lying  near  them,  and  he 
was  trying  to  load  still  another.  He  threw  a  butcher- 
knife  at  Macfarlan  as  the  latter  crawled  in  through  the 
broken  pane.  Then,  either  he  could  not  use  his  pistol 
at  all,  or  he  was  dazed  by  the  exhibition  of  such  nerve, 
for  Macfarlan,  who  was  a  lacrosse-player  at  Yale,  and 
whose  movements  are  lightning-like,  downed  him  with 
the  poker,  and  he  and  his  brother,  who  was  only  a  mo- 
ment behind  through  the  hole  in  the  door,  carried  him 
out,  unconscious. 

A  whistle  blew  one  night,  when  a  storm  was  going 
on.  It  came  from  a  swamp  that  used  to  run  through 
a  part  of  the  town.  Before  I  could  get  fifty  yards 
toward  it,  there  were  three  flashes  of  lightning  and  two 
pistol-shots,  followed  by  screams  of  terror  and  pain ;  and 
in  a  few  minutes  I  came  upon  a  tough  writhing  at  the 
foot  of  a  tree,  and  Logan  bending  over  him.  By  the 
first  flash,  the  captain  had  seen  the  fellow  behind  a 
tree,  and  he  called  to  him  to  come  out;  by  the  second, 
he  saw  him  levelling  his  pistol;  and  by  the  third  flash, 
both  fired.  Logan  thought  at  first  that  the  man  was 
mortally  wounded,  but  he  got  well.  One  bitter  cold 
night  a  negro  shot  a  white  man  and  escaped.    The  en- 

233 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

tire  guard  watched  pass  and  gap  and  railroad  track 
for  him  all  the  awful  night  long.  The  fifteen-year-old 
infant  of  the  guard — since  known  at  Harvard  as  "  the 
Colonel " — was  on  guard  at  one  point  alone,  with 
orders  to  hold  every  negro  who  came  along.  When  re- 
Keved,  the  doughty  little  Colonel  had  about  twenty 
shivering  blacks  huddled  and  held  together  at  the  point 
of  his  pistol.  Among  them  was  the  negro  wanted,  and 
that  night  the  guard  took  him  to  the  woods  and  spent 
another  bitter  night,  guarding  him  from  a  mob. 

Twice  again  it  saved  a  negro  from  certain  death. 
Once  the  crime  charged  was  that  for  which  the  law 
can  fix  no  penalty,  since  there  is  none;  in  Virginia 
it  is  death — death  by  law,  as  well.  Some  of  the  guard 
believed  him  guilty,  and  with  some  there  was  doubt; 
but,  irrespective  of  belief,  they  answered  Logan's  call 
to  guard  the  jail.  The  mob  gathered,  led  by  personal 
friends  of  the  men  who  were  on  guard.  As  they  ad- 
vanced, Logan  drew  his  pistol;  he  would  kill  the  first 
man  who  advanced  beyond  a  certain  point,  he  said,  and 
they  knew  that  he  meant  it.  After  a  short  parley,  the 
mob  agreed  not  to  make  any  attempt  to  take  the  negro 
out  that  night — their  plan  being  to  wait  until  he  was 
taken  to  the  county  jail  next  day — and  they  told 
Logan. 

"  Will  you  give  me  your  word  that  you  won't?  "  he 
234 


The   Infant  of  the   (iuard. 


Civilizing  the  Cumberland 

asked.  They  did,  and  he  put  up  his  pistol,  and  left 
the  jail  without  a  guard — it  needed  none.  Now  the 
curious  part  of  this  story  is  that  several  of  the  men 
who  were  there  and  ready  to  shoot  their  own  friends 
and  give  up  their  own  lives  to  protect  the  negro,  had 
already  agreed — believing  in  his  guilt — to  help  take 
him  out  of  the  county  jail,  if  the  leaders  would  wait 
until  he  was  without  the  special  jurisdiction  of  the 
guard,  and  where  the  hanging  would  not  reflect  on  the 
reputation  of  the  Gap.  Indefensible  sophistry  if  you 
will,  but  a  tribute  to  the  influence  of  the  captain  of  the 
guard,  to  the  passionate  esprit  du  corps  that  prevailed, 
and  to  the  inviolability  of  a  particular  oath. 

But  all  that  is  over — for  the  work  is  done.  Out- 
siders gave  the  plan,  the  organization,  the  leadership, 
the  example — the  natives  have  done  the  rest.  A  sim- 
ilar awakening  is  all  that  is  necessary  in  other  moun- 
tain-communities of  the  South. 

And  such  was  the  guard.  As  I  was  not  a  member 
until  its  authority  was  established  and  the  danger  was 
considerably  reduced,  I  can  pay  my  tribute  freely. 
Very  quickly  I  was  led  to  believe  that  nothing  was 
more  common  than  courage;  nothing  so  exceptionable 
as  cowardice;  and  with  that  guard,  nothing  was.  I 
can  recall  no  instance  in  which  every  man  was  not  an 
eager  volunteer  when  any  risk  was  to  be  run;   or  was 

235 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

not  eager  to  shirk  when  the  duty  was  to  keep  him 
out  of  the  trouble  at  hand,  except  once.  One  man 
was  willing,  one  night,  when  an  attack  was  to  be  made 
at  daybreak  on  a  cabin  full  of  outlaws,  to  stay  behind 
and  hold  the  horses;  and  this  man  was  newly  married, 
and  was,  besides,  quite  ill.  The  organization  still  ex- 
ists to-day,  and  the  moral  effect  of  its  existence  is  so 
strong  that  on  the  last  Fourth  of  July,  when  there  were 
several  thousand  people  in  town,  not  a  single  arrest  was 
made.  There  was  no  need  for  an  arrest.  Four  years 
ago  the  floor  of  the  calaboose  would  have  been  many 
deep.  And  the  weak  old  calaboose  stands  now,  as  it 
stood  in  the  beginning,  but,  now,  strong  enough. 


236 


The  Hanging  of  Talton  Hall 


The  Hanging  of  Talton  Hall 


THROUGH  mountain  and  valley,  humanity  had 
talked  of  nothing  else  for  weeks,  and  before 
dawn  of  the  fatal  day,  humanity  started  in  con- 
verging lines  from  all  other  counties  for  the  county- 
seat  of  "Wise — from  Scott  and  from  Lee;  from  wild 
Dickinson  and  Buchanan,  where  one  may  find  white 
men  who  have  never  looked  upon  a  black  man's  face ; 
from  the  "  Pound,"  which  harbors  the  desperadoes 
of  two  sister  States  whose  skirts  are  there  stitched 
together  with  pine  and  pin-oak  along  the  crest  of  the 
Cumberland ;  and,  farther  on,  even  from  the  far  away 
Kentucky  hills,  mountain-humanity  had  started  at 
dawn  of  the  day  before.  A  stranger  would  have 
thought  that  a  county-fair,  a  camp-meeting,  or  a  circus 
was  the  goal.  Men  and  women,  boys  and  girls,  chil- 
dren and  babes  in  arms;  each  in  his  Sunday  best — the 
men  in  jeans,  slouch  hats,  and  high  boots;  the  women 
in  gay  ribbons  and  brilliant  homespun ;  in  wagons  and 

239 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

on  foot,  on  horses  and  mules,  carrying  man  and  man, 
man  and  boj,  lover  and  sweetlieart,  or  husband  and 
wife  and  child — all  moved  through  the  crisp  Septem- 
ber air,  past  woods  of  russet  and  crimson  and  along 
brown  dirt  roads  to  a  Kttle  straggling  mountain-town 
where  midway  of  the  one  long  street  and  shut  in  by 
a  tall  board-fence  was  a  court-house,  with  the  front 
door  closed  and  barred,  and  port-holes  cut  through  its 
brick  walls  and  looking  to  the  rear;  and  in  the  rear 
a  jail;  and  to  one  side  of  the  jail,  a  tall  wooden  box 
with  a  projecting  cross-beam  in  plain  sight,  from  the 
centre  of  which  a  rope  swung  to  and  fro,  when  the 
wind  moved. 

Never  had  a  criminal  met  death  at  the  hands  of  the 
law  in  that  region,  and  it  was  not  sure  that  the  law 
was  going  to  take  its  course  now;  for  the  condemned 
man  was  a  Kentucky  feudsman,  and  his  clan  was  there 
to  rescue  him  from  the  gallows,  and  some  of  his  ene- 
mies were  on  hand  to  see  that  he  died  a  just  death  by 
a  bullet,  if  he  should  manage  to  escape  the  noose.  And 
the  guard,  whose  grim  dream  of  law  and  order  seemed 
to  be  coming  true,  was  there  from  the  Gap,  twenty 
miles  away,  to  see  that  the  noose  did  its  ordained  work. 
On  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and  along  every  road, 
boyish  policemen  were  halting  and  disarming  every 
man  who  carried  a  weapon  in  sight.    At  the  back  win- 

240 


The  Hanging  of  Talton  Hall 

dows  of  the  court-house  and  at  the  threatening  little 
port-holes  were  more  youngsters,  manning  Winchesters 
and  needle-guns;  at  the  windows  of  the  jailer's  house, 
which  was  of  frame  and  which  joined  and  fronted  the 
jail,  were  more  still  on  guard,  and  around  the  jail  was 
a  line  of  them,  heavily  armed  to  keep  the  crowd  back 
on  the  outer  side  of  the  jail-yard  fence. 

The  crowd  had  been  waiting  for  hours.  The  neigh- 
boring hills  were  black  with  people,  waiting;  the 
house-tops  were  black  with  men  and  boys,  waiting; 
the  trees  in  the  streets  were  bending  under  the  weight 
of  human  bodies,  and  the  jail-yard  fence  was  full  three 
deep  with  people  hanging  to  the  fence  and  hanging  to 
one  another's  necks,  waiting.  Now  the  fatal  noon  was 
hardly  an  hour  away,  and  a  big  man  with  a  red  face 
appeared  at  one  of  the  jailer's  windows;  and  then  the 
sheriff,  who  began  to  take  out  the  sash.  At  once  a 
hush  came  over  the  crowd  and  then  a  rustling  and  a 
murmur.  It  was  the  prisoner's  lawyer,  and  something 
was  going  to  happen.  Faces  and  gun-muzzles  thick- 
ened at  the  port-holes  and  the  court-house  windows; 
the  line  of  guards  in  the  jail-yard  wheeled  and  stood 
with  their  faces  upturned  to  the  window ;  the  crowd  on 
the  fence  scuffled  for  better  positions,  and  the  people  in 
the  locust-trees  craned  their  necks  from  the  branches, 
or  climbed  higher,  and  there  was  a  great  scraping  on 

241 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

all  the  roofs;  even  the  black  crowd  out  on  the  hills 
seemed  to  catch  the  excitement  and  to  sway,  while 
spots  of  intense  blue  and  vivid  crimson  came  out  here 
and  there  from  the  blackness  when  the  women  rose 
from  their  seats  on  the  ground.  Then — sharply — 
there  was  silence.  The  big  man  disappeared,  and  in 
his  place  and  shut  in  by  the  sashless  window,  as 
by  a  picture-frame,  and  blinking  in  the  strong  light, 
stood  a  man  with  black  hair,  cropped  close,  beard  gone, 
face  pale  and  worn,  and  hands  that  looked  thin — stood 
TaltonHall. 

He  was  going  to  confess — that  was  the  rumor.  His 
lawyers  wanted  him  to  confess;  the  preacher  who  had 
been  singing  hymns  with  him  all  morning  wanted  him 
to  confess;  the  man  himself  wanted  to  confess;  and 
now  he  was  going  to  confess.  What  deadly  mysteries 
he  might  clear  up  if  he  would !  No  wonder  the  crowd 
was  still  eager,  for  there  was  hardly  a  soul  but  knew 
his  record — and  what  a  record!  His  best  friends  put 
the  list  of  his  victims  no  lower  than  thirteen — his  ene- 
mies no  lower  than  thirty.  And  there,  looking  up  at 
him,  were  three  women  whom  he  had  widowed  or 
orphaned,  and  at  one  comer  of  the  jail-yard  still  an- 
other, a  little  woman  in  black — the  widow  of  the  con- 
stable whom  Hall  had  shot  to  death  only  a  year  before. 

Now  Hall's  lips  opened  and  closed;  and  opened  and 
242 


The  Hanging  of  Talton  Hall 

closed  again.  Then  he  took  hold  of  the  side  of  the 
window  and  looked  behind  him.  The  sheriff  brought 
him  a  chair  and  he  sat  down.  Apparently  he  was  weak 
and  he  was  going  to  wait  awhile;  and  so  he  sat,  in 
full  view,  still  blinking  in  the  strong  light,  but  nodding 
with  a  faint  smile  to  some  friend  whom  he  could  make 
out  on  the  fence,  or  in  a  tree,  or  on  a  house-top,  and 
waiting  for  strength  to  lay  bare  his  wretched  soul  to 
man  as  he  claimed  to  have  laid  it  bare  to  God. 


n 

One  year  before,  at  Norton,  six  miles  away,  when 
the  constable  turned  on  his  heel.  Hall,  without  warn- 
ing, and  with  the  malice  of  Satan,  shot  him,  and  he 
fell  on  the  railroad  track — dead.  Norton  is  on  the 
Virginia  side  of  Black  Mountain,  and  at  once  Hall 
struck  off  into  the  woods  and  climbed  the  rocky  breast 
of  the  Cumberland,  to  make  for  his  native  Kentucky 
hills. 

"  Somehow,"  he  said  to  me,  when  he  was  in  jail  a 
year  after,  "  I  knowed  right  then  that  my  name  was 
Dennis  " — a  phrase  of  evil  prophecy  that  he  had 
picked  up  outside  the  mountains.  He  swore  to  me 
that,  the  night  of  the  murder,  when  he  lay  down  to 
sleep,   high   on  the  mountain-side   and   under   some 

243 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

rhododendron-bushes,  a  flock  of  little  birds  flew  in  on 
him  like  a  gust  of  rain  and  perched  over  and  around 
him,  twittering  at  him  all  night  long.  At  daybreak 
they  were  gone,  but  now  and  then  throughout  the  day, 
as  he  sat  in  the  sun  planning  his  escape,  the  birds  would 
sweep  chattering  over  his  head,  he  said,  and  would 
sweep  chattering  back  again.  He  swore  to  me  further, 
on  the  day  he  was  to  go  to  the  scaffold  (I  happened  to 
be  on  the  death-watch  that  morning),  that  at  daybreak 
those  birds  had  come  again  to  his  prison-window  and 
had  chirped  at  him  through  the  bars.  All  this  struck 
me  as  strange,  for  Hall's  brain  was,  on  all  other  points, 
as  clear  as  rain,  and,  unlike  "  The  Eed  Fox  of  the 
Mountains,"  who  occupied  the  other  cell  of  his  cage, 
was  not  mystical,  and  never  claimed  to  have  visions. 
Hall  was  a  Kentucky  f  eudsman — one  of  the  mountain- 
border  rufl&ans  who  do  their  deeds  of  deviltry  on  one 
side  of  the  State-line  that  runs  the  crest  of  Black 
Mountain,  and  then  step  over  to  the  other  side  to 
escape  the  lax  arm  of  mountain-justice.  He  was  little 
sorry  for  what  he  had  done,  except,  doubtless,  for  the 
reason  that  the  deed  would  hamper  his  freedom.  He 
must  move  elsewhere,  when  a  pair  of  hot  black  eyes 
were  at  that  moment  luring  him  back  to  Norton. 
Still,  he  could  have  the  woman  follow  him,  and  his 
temporary  denial  bothered  him  but  little.    In  reality, 

244 


The  Hanging  of  Talton  Hall 

lie  liad  not  been  much  afraid  of  arrest  and  trial,  in  spite 
of  the  birds  and  his  premonition.  He  had  come  clear 
of  the  charge  of  murder  many  times  before,  but  he 
claimed  afterward  that  he  was  more  uneasy  than  he 
had  ever  been;  and  with  what  good  reason  he  little 
knew.  Only  a  few  miles  below  where  he  sat,  and  be- 
yond the  yawning  mouth  that  spat  the  little  branch 
trickling  past  his  feet  as  a  torrent  through  the  Gap 
and  into  Powell's  Valley,  was  come  a  new  power  to 
take  his  fate  in  hand.  Down  there — the  Gap  itself  was 
a  hell-hole  then — a  little  band  of  "  furrinei's  "  had 
come  in  from  blue-grass  Kentucky  and  tide-water  Vir- 
ginia to  make  their  homes;  young  fellows  in  whom 
pioneering  was  a  birthright;  who  had  taken  matters 
into  their  own  hands,  had  formed  a  volunteer  police- 
guard,  and  were  ready,  if  need  be,  to  match  Win- 
chester with  Winchester,  pistol  with  pistol,  but  always 
for  and  in  the  name  of  the  law.  Talt  had  one 
enemy,  too,  to  whom  he  gave  little  thought.  This 
was  old  "  Doc  "  Taylor — a  queer  old  fellow,  who 
was  preacher,  mountain-doctor,  revenue-officer;  who 
preached  Swedenborgianism — Heaven  knows  where  he 
got  it  in  those  wilds — doctored  with  herbs  night  and 
day  for  charity,  and  chased  criminals  from  vanity,  or 
personal  enmity,  or  for  fun.  He  knew  every  by-path 
through  the  mountains,  and  he  moved  so  swiftly  that 

245 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

the  superstitious  credited  liim  with  superhuman  powers 
of  locomotion.  Nobody  was  surprised,  walking  some 
lonely  path,  to  have  old  Doc  step  from  the  bushes 
at  his  side  and  as  mysteriously  slip  away.  He  had  a 
spy-glass  fully  five  feet  long  with  which  to  watch  his 
quarry  from  the  mountain-tops,  and  he  wore  mocca- 
sins with  the  heels  forward  so  that  nobody  could  tell 
which  way  he  had  gone.  In  time  his  cunning  gave 
him  the  title  of  "  The  Ked  Fox  of  the  Mountains." 
It  was  the  Red  Fox  who  hated  Hall  and  was  to  catch 
him;  the  "  furriners  from  the  Gap  "  were  to  guard 
him,  see  that  he  was  tried  by  a  fearless  jury,  and,  if 
pronounced  guilty,  hanged.  Hall  knew  Taylor's 
hatred,  of  course,  but  scorned  him,  and  he  had  heard 
vaguely  of  the  Gap.  In  prison,  he  alternately  cursed 
his  cell-mate,  who,  by  a  curious  turn  of  fate,  was  none 
other  than  the  Red  Fox  caught,  at  last,  in  his  own 
toils,  and  wondered  deeply,  and  with,  hearty  oaths, 
"  what  in  the  hell  "  people  at  the  Gap  had  against  him 
that  they  should  leave  their  business  and  risk  their 
lives  to  see  that  he  did  not  escape  a  death  that  was 
unmerited.  The  mountaineer  finds  abstract  devotion 
to  law  and  order  a  hard  thing  to  understand.  The 
Red  Fox  more  than  hated  Hall — he  feared  him;  and 
how  Hall,  after  capture,  hated  him!  No  sooner  was 
the  feudsman's  face  turned  southward  than  the  Red 

246 


The  Hanging  of  Talton  Hall 

Fox  kept  cunning  guard  over  the  black-eyed  woman 
at  Norton  and,  through  her,  learned  where  his  enemy 
was.  More — he  furnished  money  for  two  detectives 
to  go  after  Hall  and  arrest  him  on  a  charge  of  which 
he  was  not  guilty,  and  thus  decoy  him,  without  re- 
sistance, to  jail,  where  they  told  him  the  real  reason 
of  the  aiTest.  Hall  fell  to  the  floor  in  a  cursing  fit 
of  rage.  Then  the  Red  Fox  himself  went  south  to 
help  guard  Hall  back  to  the  mountains.  A  mob  of  the 
dead  constable's  friends  were  waiting  for  him  at  Nor- 
ton— for  the  murder  was  vicious  and  unprovoked — 
and  old  Doc  stood  by  Hall's  side,  facing  the  infuriated 
crowd  with  a  huge  drawn  pistol  in  each  hand  and  a 
peculiar  smile  on  his  washed-out  face.  Old  Squire 
Salyers,  father-in-law  to  the  constable,  made  a  vicious 
cut  at  the  prisoner  with  a  clasp  knife  as  he  stepped 
from  the  train,  but  he  was  caught  and  held,  and  with 
the  help  of  the  volunteer  guard  from  the  Gap,  Hall 
was  got  safely  to  jail  at  Glade ville,  the  county-seat  of 
Wise. 

It  was  to  protect  Hall  from  his  enemies  that  con- 
cerned Hall's  Kentucky  mountain-clan  at  first,  for 
while  trial  for  murder  was  not  rare  and  conviction  was 
quite  possible,  such  a  thing  as  a  hanging  had  never 
been  heard  of  in  that  part  of  the  world.  Why,  then, 
the  Red  Fox  was  so  eager  to  protect  Hall  for  the  law 

247 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

was  a  mystery  to  many,  but  the  truth  probably  was 
that  he  had  mischief  of  his  own  to  conceal ;  and,  more- 
over, he  knew  about  that  guard  at  the  Gap.  So,  during 
the  trial,  the  old  man  headed  the  local  guard  that  led 
Hall  to  and  from  jail  to  court-house,  and  stood  by 
him  in  the  court-room  with  one  of  the  big  pistols  ever 
drawn  and  that  uncanny  smile  on  his  uncanny  face. 
For  the  Red  Fox  had  a  strange  face.  One  side  was 
calm,  kindly,  benevolent;  on  the  other  side  a  curious 
twitch  of  the  muscles  would  now  and  then  lift  the  cor- 
ner of  his  mouth  into  a  wolfish  snarl.  So  that  Dr. 
Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde  in  old  Doc  were  separated  only 
by  the  high  bridge  of  his  nose.  Throughout  the  long 
trial,  old  Doc  was  at  his  post.  Only  one  night  was 
he  gone,  and  the  next  morning  an  old  moonshiner  and 
four  of  his  family  were  shot  from  ambush  in  the 
"  Pound."  As  Doc  was  back  at  his  post  that  after- 
noon, nobody  thought  of  connecting  the  murder  with 
him.  Besides,  everybody  was  concerned  with  the 
safety  of  Hall — his  enemies  and  his  friends:  his 
friends  for  one  reason,  that  eight  of  the  jury  were 
fearless  citizens  of  the  "  Gap  "  who  would  give  a  ver- 
dict in  accordance  with  the  law  and  the  evidence,  in 
spite  of  the  intimidation  that,  hitherto,  had  never 
failed  to  bring  a  desperado  clear;  and  for  another, 
that  the  coils  were  surely  tightening;   his  enemies,  for 

248 


The  Hanging  of  Talton  Hall 

fear  that  Hall's  friends  would  cheat  the  gallows  by 
rescuing  him  from  jail.  Rumors  of  rescue  thickened 
every  day — Hall's  Kentucky  clan  was  coming  over 
Black  Mountain  to  take  the  prisoner  from  jail.  More- 
over, Hall's  best  friend — John  Rawn — was  the  most 
influential  man  in  the  county — a  shrewd,  daring  fellow 
who  kept  a  band  of  armed  retainers  within  call  of  his 
yard-fence.  He,  too,  it  was  said,  was  going  to  help 
Hall  to  freedom.  Accordingly  the  day  before  the  ver- 
dict was  brought  in,  twenty  of  the  volunteer  guard 
came  up  from  the  Gap,  twenty  miles  away,  to  keep 
Hall's  friends  from  saving  him  from  the  gallows,  and 
his  enemies  from  rescuing  him  for  death  by  a  Win- 
chester; and  to  do  this  they  gave  it  out  that  they 
would  put  him  aboard  at  Norton;  but,  instead,  they 
spirited  him  away  across  the  hills  to  another  railroad. 

A  few  months  later  Hall  was  brought  back  for 
execution.  He  was  placed  in  a  cage  that  had  two 
cells,  and,  as  he  passed  the  first  cell  an  old  freckled 
hand  was  thrust  between  the  bars  to  greet  him  and  a 
voice  called  him  by  name.  Hall  stopped  in  amaze- 
ment; then  he  burst  out  laughing;  then  he  struck  at 
the  pallid  face  through  the  bars  with  his  manacles  and 
cursed  him  bitterly;  then  he  laughed  again,  horribly. 
It  was  the  Red  Fox  behind  the  bars  on  charge  of  shoot- 
ing the  naponshiner's  family  from  ambush — the  Red 

^49 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

Fox  caught  in  his  own  toils;  and  there  the  two  stayed 
in  adjoining  cells  of  the  same  cage.  The  Red  Fox 
sang  hymns  by  day,  and  had  visions  by  night,  which 
he  told  to  the  death-watch  every  morning.  In  one 
dream  that  he  told  me  he  said  he  was  crossing  a  river 
in  a  boat.  The  wind  rose,  a  storm  came,  and  he  barely 
got  to  land.  Wind  and  wave  were  his  enemies,  he 
said;  the  storm  was  his  trial,  and  getting  to  shore 
meant  that  he  was  coming  out  all  right. 

The  Red  Fox's  terror  of  Hall  was  pathetic.  Once 
he  wrote  to  my  brother,  who  was  first  in  command  in 
the  absence  of  the  captain  of  the  guard :  "  This  man 
iS  a  Devil  and  i  am  a  f raid  of  him  he  is  trying  to  burn 
the  gail  down  and  i  wiSh  you  would  take  him  away." 
But  the  two  stayed  together — the  one  waiting  for  trial, 
the  other  for  his  scaffold,  which  was  building.  The 
sound  of  saw  and  hammer  could  be  plainly  heard 
throughout  the  jail,  but  Hall  said  never  a  word 
about  it. 

He  thought  he  was  going  to  be  pardoned,  and  if  not 
pardoned — rescued,  surely.  He  did  get  a  stay  of  exe- 
cution for  a  month,  and  then  the  rumors  of  rescue  flew 
about  in  earnest,  and  the  guard  came  up  from  the  Gap 
in  full  force  and  cut  port-holes  in  the  court-house  walls, 
and  drilled  twice  a  day  and  put  out  sentinels  at  night. 
The  town  was  practically  under  military  law,  and  the 

250 


The  Hanging  of  Talton  Hall 

times  were  tender.  By  day  we  would  see  suspicious 
characters  watching  us  from  the  spurs  round  about, 
and  hear  very  queer  noises  at  nigKt.  The  senses  of 
the  young  guards  got  so  acute  because  of  the  strain, 
that  one  swore  that  he  heard  a  cat  walking  over  the 
sand  a  hundred  yards  away.  Another  was  backed  into 
town  one  dark  night  by  an  old  cow  that  refused  to 
halt,  when  challenged.  Another  picket  let  off  his  gun 
by  accident  just  before  day,  and  the  men  sprang  from 
their  blankets  on  the  court-house  floor  and  were  at  the 
windows  and  port-holes  like  lightning.  Two  who 
waited  to  dress,  were  discharged  next  morning.  One 
night  there  was  a  lively  discussion  wlien  the  captain 
gave  strict  orders  that  the  pickets  must  fire  as  soon 
as  they  saw  the  mob,  in  order  to  alarm  the  guard  in 
town,  and  not  wait  until  they  were  personally  safe. 
This  meant  the  sacrifice  of  that  particular  picket,  and 
there  was  serious  question  as  to  the  right  of  the  captain 
to  give  orders  like  that.  And  that  night  as  I  passed 
through  the  room  where  the  infant  of  the  guard  was 
waiting  to  go  on  picket  duty  on  a  lonely  road  at  mid- 
night, I  heard  him  threshing  around  in  his  bed,  and 
he  called  to  me  in  the  manner  of  a  farewell : 

"  I — I — I've  made  up  my  mind  to  shoot,"  he  said; 
and  so  had  everybody  else.  Whether  a  thing  happens 
or  not  makes  little  difference  as  far  as  the  interest  of 

251 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

it  is  concerned,  when  one  is  convinced  that  it  is  going 
to  happen  and  looking  for  it  to  take  place  any  minute; 
at  least,  waiting  out  on  a  lonely  road  under  the  stars, 
alone,  for  a  band  of  "  wild  jayhawkers  from  old  Kane- 
tuck  "  to  come  sweeping  down  on  the  town  was  quite 
enough  to  keep  the  pickets  awake  and  alert.  One 
night  we  thought  trouble  was  sure,  and,  indeed,  serious 
trouble  almost  came,  but  not  the  trouble  we  were  ex- 
pecting. A  lawyer  brought  the  news  that  two  bands 
of  Kentuckians  had  crossed  Black  Mountain  that  morn- 
ing to  fire  the  town  at  both  ends  and  dynamite  the 
court-house  and  the  jail.  As  there  were  only  fifteen 
of  us  on  hand,  we  telegraphed  speedily  to  the  Gap  for 
the  rest  of  the  guard,  and  an  engine  and  a  caboose 
were  sent  down  for  them  from  Norton,  six  miles  away. 
The  engineer  was  angry  at  having  extra  work  to  do,  and 
when  he  started  from  the  Gap  with  the  guard,  he 
pulled  his  throttle  wide  open.  The  road  was  new  and 
rough,  and  the  caboose  ran  off  the  track  while  going 
through  a  tunnel;  ran  along  the  ties  for  several  hun- 
dred yards  and  ran  across  sixty  feet  of  trestle,  striking 
a  girder  of  the  bridge  and  spKtting  it  for  two  yards 
or  more.  A  guard  managed  to  struggle  out  of  the 
door  and  fire  off  his  Winchester  just  there,  and  the 
engineer,  hearing  it,  pulled  up  within  ten  yards  of  a 
sharp  curve.     The  delay  of  ten  seconds  in  the  report 

252 


iy  .i 


\\  ^ 


'^i'  viti  .^ 


"  Hev  vou  ever  searched  for  a  dead  man  ?  " 


The  Hanging  of  Talton  Hall 

of  the  gun,  and  the  caboose,  with  the  thirty-five  oc- 
cupants, would  have  been  hurled  down  an  embank- 
ment and  into  the  river.  The  Kentuckians  did  not 
come  in  that  night,  and  thereafter  the  guard  stayed  at 
the  county-seat  in  full  force  until  the  day  set  for  the 
execution. 

Apparently  the  purpose  of  a  rescue  was  given  up, 
but  we  could  not  tell,  and  one  morning  there  was  con- 
siderable excitement  when  John  Rawn,  the  strong 
friend  of  the  condemned  man,  rode  into  town  and  up 
to  the  jail,  and  boldly  asked  permission  to  see  Hall. 
Rawn  was  the  man  to  whom  Hall  was  looking  for 
rescue.  He  was  a  tall,  straight  fellow  with  blond  hair 
and  keen  blue  eyes.  The  two  had  been  comrades  in 
the  war,  and  Hall  had  been  Rawn's  faithful  ally  in  his 
many  private  troubles.  Two  of  us  were  detailed  to  be 
on  hand  at  the  meeting,  and  I  was  one  of  the  two. 
Hall  came  to  the  cell-door,  and  the  men  grasped  hands 
and  looked  at  each  other  for  a  full  minute  without 
saying  a  word.    The  eyes  of  both  filled. 

"  Of  course,  Talt,"  he  said,  finally,  "  I  want  the  law 
to  take  its  course.  I  don't  want  to  do  anything  against 
the  law  and  I  know  you  don't  want  me  to."  I  looked 
for  a  sly  quiver  of  an  eyelid  after  this  speech,  but 
Rawn  seemed  sincere,  and  Hall,  I  thought,  dropped, 
as   though   some   prop  had   suddenly   been  knocked 

253 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

from  under  him.     He  looked  down  quickly,  but  hie 
mumbled : 

"  Yes,  of  course,  that's  right,  I  reckon.  We  don't 
want  to  do  nothing  agin  the  law." 

Still,  he  never  believed  he  was  going  to  hang,  nor 
did  he  give  up  hope  even  on  the  morning  of  his  execu- 
tion when  the  last  refusal  to  interfere  came  in  from  the 
Governor — the  chance  of  rescue  still  was  left.  The 
preachers  had  been  coming  in  to  sing  and  pray  with 
him,  and  a  priest  finally  arrived;  for,  strange  to  say. 
Hall  was  a  Catholic — the  only  one  I  ever  saw  in  the 
mountains.  Occasionally,  too,  there  had  come  his 
sister,  a  tall,  spare  woman  dressed  in  black;  and  she 
could  hardly  look  at  a  member  of  the  guard  except  v/ith 
the  bitterest  open  hatred.  All  these  besought  Hall  to 
repent,  and,  in  time,  he  did;  but  his  sincerity  was 
doubtful.  Once,  for  instance,  in  a  lull  between  the 
hymns,  and  after  Hall  had  forgiven  his  enemies, 
the  infant,  who  was  on  the  death-watch,  passed  near 
the  prisoner's  cell-door,  and  Hall's  hand  shot  through 
the  bars  and  the  tips  of  his  fingers  brushed  the  butt 
of  the  boy's  pistol,  which  protruded  from  a  holster  on 
his  hip. 

"  INot  this  time,  Talt,"  he  said,  springing  away. 

"  I  was  only  foolin', "  Talt  said,  but  his  eyes 
gleamed. 

254 


The  Hanging  of  Talton  Hall 

Again,  the  night  before,  being  on  guard  down  be- 
hind tlie  jail,  I  heard  Hall  cursing  because  the  guards 
would  give  him  no  whiskey.  This  was  cruel,  for  the 
reason  that  they  had  been  allowing  him  liquor  until 
that  night,  when  he  was  most  in  need  of  it.  As  soon 
as  I  was  relieved,  I  got  a  bottle  of  whiskey  and  told 
the  watch  to  let  him  have  it.  Hall  was  grateful,  and 
next  morning  he  called  me  by  my  first  name. 

"  I  love  you,"  he  said,  "  but  I've  got  you  spotted." 
He  had  repeatedly  sworn  that  he  would  have  many 
of  us  ambushed,  after  his  death,  and  his  sister  was  sup- 
posed to  have  our  names  and  descriptions  of  us,  and  an 
old  Kentucky  mountaineer  told  me  that  he  would 
rather  have  the  ten  worst  men  in  the  mountains  his 
deadly  enemies  than  that  one  woman.  Hall  meant 
that  he  had  me  on  his  list.  As  ambush  would  be  very 
easy  on  our  trips  to  and  from  the  county-seat,  through 
thick  laurel  and  rhododendron,  I  told  the  priest  of 
Hall's  threat  and  suggested  that  he  might  save  us 
trouble  by  getting  Hall  to  announce  in  his  confession 
that  he  wanted  nothing  else  done.  The  priest  said  he 
would  try.  But  for  a  little  while  on  the  morning  of 
the  execution,  Hall,  for  the  first  time,  gave  up  and 
got  very  humble ;  and  there  was  one  pathetic  incident. 
The  sister  was  crouched  at  the  cell-door,  and  Hall,  too, 
was  crouched  on  the  floor,  talking  to  her  through  the 

255 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

bars.  Tliey  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  but  were  not  permitted 
to  whisper.  At  last  Hall  asked  that  he  might  give  his 
sister  a  secret  message.  It  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
guard,  or  the  law,  or  his  escape,  but  he  did  not  want  it 
heard.  The  "  Judge,"  who  was  on  guard,  was  tender- 
hearted, but  a  martinet  withal,  and  he  felt  obliged  to 
deny  the  request.  And  then  Hall  haltingly  asked 
aloud  that  his  sister  should  bring  a  silk  handkerchief 
and  tie  it  around  his  throat — afterward — to  hide  the 
red  mark  of  the  rope.  Tears  sprang  to  the  "  Judge's  " 
eyes,  and  he  coughed  quickly  and  pulled  out  his  own 
handkerchief  to  blow  his  nose.  It  happened  to  be  of 
silk,  and,  a  moment  later,  I  saw  him  pressing  the  hand- 
kerchief into  the  woman's  hands.  An  hour  later  Hall 
said  that  he  was  ready  to  confess. 


Ill 

No  wonder  the  crowd  was  eager.  Would  he  tell  all? 
How,  when  he  was  only  fourteen  years  old,  he  had  shot 
Harry  Maggard,  his  uncle,  during  the  war — Hall  de- 
nied this;  how  he  had  killed  his  two  brothers-in-law 
— one  was  alive,  Hall  said,  and  he  had  been  tried  for 
killing  the  other  and  had  come  clear;  how  he  had  killed 
Henry  Monk  in  the  presence  of  Monk's  wife  at  a  wild- 

256 


The  Hanging  of  Talton  Hall 

bee  tree — he  claimed  to  have  been  cleared  for  that; 
how  he  had  killed  a  Kentucky  sheriff  by  dropping  to 
the  ground  when  the  sheriff  fired,  in  this  way  dodging 
the  bullet  and  then  shooting  the  officer  from  where  he 
lay,  supposedly  dead — that,  Hall  said,  was  a  lie;  how 
he  had  taken  Mack  Hall's  life  in  the  Wright-Jones 
feud — Mack,  he  said,  had  waylaid  and  wounded  him 
first ;  how  he  had  thrown  John  Adams  out  of  the  court- 
house window  at  Prestonburg,  over  in  Kentucky,  and 
broken  his  neck — Adams  was  drunk.  Hall  said,  and 
fell  out;  why  he  had  killed  Abe  Little — because,  said 
Hall,  he  resisted  arrest;  how  and  where  he  killed  Red- 
necked Johnson,  who  was  found  out  in  the  woods  one 
morning  a  week  after  he  had  disappeared;  whether 
he  had  killed  Frank  Salyers,  whose  wife  he  afterward 
married ;  and  the  many  other  mysteries  that  he  might 
clear  up  if  he  would  speak.  Would  he  tell  all?  No 
wonder  the  crowd  was  still. 

Hall  stood  motionless,  and  his  eyes  slowly  wandered 
around  at  the  waiting  people — in  the  trees,  on  the  roofs, 
and  on  the  fence — and  he  sank  slowly  back  to  his 
chair  again.  Again  a  murmur  rose.  Maybe  he  was 
too  weak  to  stand  and  talk — perhaps  he  was  going  to 
talk  from  his  chair;  yes,  he  was  leaning  forward  now 
and  his  lips  were  opening.  He  was  looking  downward 
into  the  uplooking  face  of  a  big,  red-cheeked  fellow, 

257 


Biue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

and  he  was  surely  going  to  speak.  The  crowd  became 
still  again.    And  he  did  speak. 

"  What's  yo'  name? "  he  asked.  The  fellow  told 
him — ^he  had  been  an  unimportant  witness  in  the  trial 
— neither  for  nor  against  Hall. 

"  I  thought  so/'  said  Hall,  and  of  his  own  accord  he 
turned  away  from  the  window  and  that  was  all  that 
the  man  with  the  charge  of  two-score  murders  on  his 
soul  had  to  say  to  the  world  before  he  left  it  to  be 
judged  for  them,  as  he  firmly  believed,  by  a  living 
God.  A  little  later  the  line  of  guards  wheeled  again 
to  face  the  crowded  fence,  and  Hall  started  for  the 
scaffold.  He  kissed  my  brother's  hand  in  the  jail,  and 
when  old  Doc  came  to  his  cell-door  to  tell  him  good-by, 
Hall  put  his  face  to  the  window  and  kissed  his  bitterest 
enemy — the  man  who  had  brought  him  to  his  death. 
Then  he  went  out  with  a  firm  step;  but  his  face  was 
dispirited  and  hopeless  at  last;  it  looked  the  face  of  a 
man  who  has  just  been  relieved  from  some  long-en- 
dured physical  pain  that  has  left  him  weak  in  body  and 
spii'it.  Twenty  of  us  had  been  assigned  by  lot  to  duty 
as  a  special  guard  inside  the  box,  and  all  of  us,  at  his 
request,  shook  one  of  his  helpless  hands,  which  were 
tied  behind  his  back.  When  he  had  mounted  the  scaf- 
fold, he  called  for  his  sister,  and  the  tall,  thin,  black 
spectre  came  in  and  mounted  the  scaffold,  too,  stopping 

258 


The  Hanging  of  Talton  Hall 

on  the  step  below  him.  Hall  did  not  call  her  by  name 
— he  hardly  looked  at  her,  nor  did  he  tell  her  good-by 
again. 

"  Been  enough  killin'  on  my  account,"  he  said, 
abruptly;  "  I  don't  want  nothin'  more  done  about  this. 
I  don't  want  no  more  lives  lost  on  account  o'  me.  I 
want  things  to  stop  right  here." 

The  woman  waved  a  threatening  hand  over  us,  and 
her  voice  rose  in  a  wail.  "  Oh,  Talt,  I  can't  let  this 
rest  here.  You'd  just  as  well  take  up  one  o'  these  men 
right  here  and  hang  'em.  I  ain't  goin'  to  let  it' stop 
here — no — no!  "  And  she  began  to  cry  and  ran  down 
the  steps  and  out  of  the  box. 

Hall  stood  as  motionless  as  the  trunk  of  an  oak.  A 
man  will  show  nervousness  with  a  twitch  of  the  lips, 
a  roll  of  the  eyes,  or,  if  in  no  other  way,  with  his  hands; 
but  I  was  just  behind  him,  and  not  a  finger  of  his 
bound  hands  moved.  The  sheriff  was  a  very  tender- 
hearted man  and  a  very  nervous  one ;  and  the  arrange- 
ments for  the  execution  were  awkward.  Two  upright 
beams  had  to  be  knocked  from  under  the  trap-door, 
so  that  it  would  rest  on  the  short  rope-noose  that  had 
to  be  cut  before  the  door  would  fall.  As  each  of  these 
was  knocked  out,  the  door  sank  an  inch,  and  the  sus- 
pense was  horrible.  The  poor  wretch  must  have 
thought  that  each  stroke  was  the  one  that  was  to  send 

259 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

him  to  eternity,  but  not  a  muscle  moved.  All  was 
ready,  at  last,  and  the  sheriff  cried,  in  a  loud  voice : 

"  May  God  have  mercy  on  this  poor  man's  soul!  " 
and  struck  the  rope  with  a  common  hatchet.  The 
black-capped  apparition  shot  down,  and  the  sheriff  ran, 
weeping,  out  of  the  door  of  the  box. 

So  far  no  revenge  has  been  taken  for  the  hanging 
of  Talton  Hall.  The  mountaineer  never  forgets,  and 
he  hates  as  long  as  he  remembers,  but  it  is  probable 
that  no  trouble  will  ever  come  of  it  unless  some  promi- 
nent member  of  that  guard  should  chance,  some  day, 
to  wander  carelessly  into  the  little  creek  to  which  the 
rough  two-horse  wagon  followed  by  relatives  and 
friends,  mounted  and  on  foot,  bore  the  remains  of  the 
first  victim  of  law  and  order  in  the  extreme  southwest 
comer  of  the  commonwealth  of  Virginia. 


a6o 


The  Red  Fox  of  the  Mountains 


The  Red  Fox  of  the  Mountains 

THE  Red  Fox  of  the  Mountains  was  going  to  be 
hanged.  Being  a  preacher,  as  well  as  herb- 
doctor,  revenue-officer,  detective,  crank,  and 
assassin,  he  was  going  to  preach  his  owti  funeral  ser- 
mon on  the  Sunday  before  the  day  set  for  his  passing. 
He  was  going  to  wear  a  suit  of  white  and  a  death-cap 
of  white,  both  made  of  damask  tablecloth  by  his  little 
old  wife,  and  both  emblems  of  the  purple  and  fine  linen 
that  he  was  to  put  on  above.  Moreover,  he  would 
have  his  body  kept  unburied  for  three  days — saying 
that,  on  the  third  day,  he  would  arise  and  go  about 
preaching.  How  he  reconciled  such  a  dual  life  at  one 
and  the  same  time,  over  and  under  the  stars,  was 
known  only  to  his  twisted  brain,  and  is  no  concern  of 
mine — I  state  the  facts.  But  had  such  a  life  been 
possible,  it  would  have  been  quite  consistent  with  the 
Red  Fox's  strange  dual  way  on  earth.  For,  on  Sun- 
days he  preached  the  Word;  other  days,  he  was  a  walk- 
ing arsenal,  with  a  huge  50  x  75  Winchester  over  one 

263 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

shoulder,  two  belts  of  gleaming  cartridges  about  his 
waist,  and  a  great  pistol  swung  to  either  hip.  In  the 
woods,  he  would  wear  moccasins  with  the  heels  for- 
ward, so  that  no  man  could  tell  which  way  he  had 
gone.  You  might  be  walking  along  a  lonely  path  in 
the  mountains  and  the  Red  Fox — or  "  old  Doc  " — as 
he  was  usually  called,  would  step  mysteriously  from 
the  bushes  at  your  side,  ask  a  few  questions  and,  a  few 
hundred  yards  farther,  would  disappear  again — to  be 
heard  of  again — a  few  hours  later — at  some  incredible 
distance  away.  Credited  thus  with  superhuman  pow- 
ers of  locomotion  and  wearing  those  mysterious  moc- 
casins— and,  as  a  tribute  to  his  infernal  shrewdness — 
he  came  to  be  known,  by  and  by,  as  "  The  Red  Fox 
of  the  Mountains."  Sometimes  he  would  even  carry 
a  huge  spy-glass,  five  feet  long,  with  which  he  watched 
his  enemies  from  the  mountain-tops.  When  he  had 
"  located  "  them,  he  would  slip  down  and  take  a  pot 
shot  at  them.  And  yet,  day  or  night,  he  would,  as 
"  yarb-doctor,"  walk  a  dozen  miles  to  see  a  sick  friend, 
and  charge  not  a  cent  for  his  services.  And  day  and 
night  he  would  dream  dreams  and  have  visions  and 
talk  his  faith  by  the  hour.  One  other  dark  deed  had 
been  laid  to  his  door — unproven — but  now,  caught  in 
his  own  toils,  at  last,  the  Red  Fox  was  going  to  be 
hanged, 

264 


The  Red  Fox  of  the  Mountains 

The  scene  of  that  death-sentence  was  a  strange  one. 
The  town  was  a  little  mountain-village — a  county-seat 
— down  in  the  southwestern  corner  of  Virginia,  and 
not  far  from  the  Kentucky  line.  The  court-house  was 
of  brick,  but  rudely  built. 

The  court-room  was  crowded  and  still,  and  the 
Judge  shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair — for  it  was  his  first 
death-sentence — and  leaned  forward  on  his  elbows — 
speaking  slowly: 

"  Have  you  anything  to  say  whereby  sentence  of 
death  should  not  be  pronounced  on  you  ?  " 

The  Red  Fox  rose  calmly,  shifted  his  white  tie, 
cleared  his  throat,  and  stood  a  moment,  steady  and 
silent,  with  his  strange  dual  character  showing  in  his 
face — kindness  and  benevolence  on  one  side,  a  wolfish 
snarl  on  the  other,  and  both  plain  to  any  eye  that 
looked. 

"  No,"  he  said,  clearly,  "  but  I  have  one  friend  here 
who  I  would  like  to  speak  for  me." 

Again  the  Judge  shifted  in  his  chair.  He  looked 
at  the  little  old  woman  who  sat  near,  in  black — wife 
to  the  Red  Fox  and  mother  of  his  children. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  "  why — yes — but  who  is  your 
friend?" 

"  Jesus  Christ!  "  said  the  Red  Fox,  sharply.  The 
whole  house  shivered,  and  the  Judge  reverently  bowed 
his  head. 

265 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

Only  a  few  months  before,  I  had  seen  the  Red  Fox 
in  that  same  court-room.  But,  then,  he  had  a  huge  pis- 
tol in  each  hand  and  bore  himself  like  a  conqueror,  as 
he  guarded  his  old  enemy,  Talton  Hall,  to  and  fro 
from  court-house  to  jail,  and  stood  over  him  in  the 
court-room  while  that  old  enemy  was  on  trial  for  his 
life.  To  be  sure,  that  flying  wedge  of  civilization — 
the  volunteer  police-guard  down  at  the  "  Gap,"  twenty 
miles  away,  was  on  hand,  too,  barricading  the  court- 
house, through  the  brick  walls  of  which  they  had  cut 
port-holes,  keeping  the  town  under  military  law,  and 
on  guard,  night  and  day,  to  prevent  Hall's  Kentucky 
clansmen  from  rescuing  him;  but  it  was  the  Red 
Fox  who  furnished  money  and  brains  to  run  his  enemy 
down — who  guarded  him  to  jail  and  who  stood  at  the 
railway  station,  with  his  big  pistols  and  his  strange 
smile,  keeping  at  bay  the  mob  who  hungered  for  Hall's 
life  without  the  trial  by  his  peers.  And  now,  where 
Hall  had  stood  then, — the  Red  Fox  was  standing  now, 
with  the  cross-beam  of  the  gallows  from  which  Hall 
had  dangled,  and  from  which  the  Fox  was  to  dangle 
now, — plain  to  his  eyes  through  the  open  window.  It 
was  a  curious  transformation  in  so  short  a  time  from 
the  hunter-of-men  to  the  hunted-of-men,  and  it  was 
still  more  curious  that,  just  while  the  Red  Fox  was 
hounding  Hall  to  his  grave,  he  should  have  done  the 

266 


The  Red  Fox  of  the  Mountains 

deed  that,  straightway  and  soon,  was  to  lead  him 
there. 

For  the  Red  Fox  had  one  other  bitter  enemy  whom 
he  feared  even  more  than  he  hated — an  old  moon- 
shiner from  the  Pound — who  came  to  the  little 
county-seat  every  court-day.  Indeed,  a  certain  two- 
horse  wagon,  driven  by  a  thin,  little,  old  woman  and 
a  big-eared,  sallow-faced  boy,  used  to  be  a  queer  sight 
on  the  dirty  streets  of  the  town ;  for  the  reason  that  the 
woman  and  boy  rarely  left  the  wagon,  and  both  were 
always  keenly  watchful  and  rather  fearful  of  some- 
thing that  lay  on  straw  behind  the  seat.  This  some- 
thing, you  soon  discovered,  was  the  out-stretched  body 
of  a  huge,  gaunt,  raw-boned  mountaineer,  so  badly 
paralyzed  that  he  could  use  nothing  but  his  head  and 
his  deep-sunken,  keen,  dark  eyes.  The  old  man  had 
a  powerful  face,  and  his  eyes  were  fierce  and  wilful. 
He  was  well  known  to  the  revenue  service  of  North 
Carolina,  and  in  a  fight  with  the  ofiicers  of  that  State, 
a  few  years  previous,  he  had  got  the  wounds  that  had 
put  him  on  his  back,  unable  to  move  hand  or  foot. 

He  was  carried  thence  to  the  Pound  in  Kentucky, 
where  he  lived  and  ran  his  "  wild-cat  "  stills,  unde- 
terred by  the  law  or  the  devil.  Ira  Mullins — old  Ira 
Mullins — was  his  name,  and  once  when  the  Red  Fox 
was  in  the  revenue  service,  the  two  came  into  con- 

267 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

flict.  Ira  wa8  bringing  some  "  moonshine  "  back  from 
JSTorth  Carolina  in  a  wagon,  and  the  Red  Fox  waited 
for  him  at  the  county-seat  with  a  posse,  and  opened 
fire  on  Mullins  and  two  companions  from  behind  fence 
and  house  corner,  (There  are  some  who  say  that  the 
Fox  fired  from  a  very  safe  position  indeed.)  Only  one 
was  killed  j  the  horses  ran  away  and  carried  off  the  body 
and  left  the  other  two  on  foot.  A  little  later,  old  Ira 
walked  leisurely  up  the  street  and  on  out  of  town,  un- 
molested and  unfollowed.  This  was  supposed  to  be 
the  origin  of  the  trouble  between  Mullins,  moon- 
shiners, and  the  Red  Fox  of  the  Mountains. 

One  day,  while  Talton  Hall  was  on  trial  and  the 
Red  Fox  was  guarding  him,  old  Ira  came  to  town. 
Two  days  later  the  Red  Fox  disappeared  over  night, 
and  the  next  morning,  just  while  old  Ira,  his  wife,  his 
big-eared  son  of  fourteen  years,  a  farm-hand,  old  Ira's 
brother,  and  that  brother's  wife  were  turning  a  corner 
of  the  road  through  Pound  Gap,  and,  just  under  some 
great  rocks  on  a  little  spur  above  them,  sheets  of  fire 
blazed  in  the  sunlight  and  the  roar  of  Winchesters  rose. 
Only  two  got  away :  the  boy,  whose  suspenders  were  cut 
in  two,  as  he  ran  up  the  road,  and  the  brother's  wife, 
who  was  allowed  to  escape  back  into  Virginia  and  who 
gave  the  alarm.  Behind  the  rocks  were  found  some 
bits  of  a  green  veil,  a  heap  of  cartridge  shells,  and  an 

268 


The  Red  Fox  of  the  Mountains 

old  army  haversack.  There  were  large  twigs  which 
had  been  thrust  into  crevices  between  the  rocks  about 
waist  high.  These  were  withered,  showing  that  some 
of  the  assassins  had  been  waiting  for  the  victims  for 
days.  Who  had  done  the  murder  was  a  mystery.  The 
old  woman,  who  had  escaped,  said  there  were  three 
men,  and  so  there  turned  out  to  be ;  that  they  had  the 
upper  part  of  their  faces  covered  with  green  veils ;  and 
that  she  thought  two  of  the  men  were  Cal  and  Heenan 
Fleming  of  the  Pound  and  that  the  third  was  the  Red 
Fox  of  the  Mountains.  Some  of  the  empty  shells  that 
were  found  behind  the  "  blind  "  fitted  a  50  x  75  Win- 
chester, and  only  three  of  such  guns  were  known  in  the 
mountains.  It  was  learned  later  that  the  Red  Fox  had 
one  of  these  three.  The  shells  found  were  rim-fire, 
instead  of  centre-fire,  as  the  Fox  on  his  trial  tried  to 
prove  that  his  shells  were.  An  examination  of  the 
gun  proved  that  some  friend  had  tried  to  alter  it ;  but 
the  job  was  so  bungling  that  it  was  plain  that  tinker- 
ing had  been  done.  So  that  the  Winchester  and  the 
effort  of  this  unskilful  friend  and  the  old  man's  ab- 
sence from  his  post  of  duty  on  the  night  preceding  the 
murder,  made  it  plain  that  the  Red  Fox  had  had  a 
hand  in  the  murder;  so  that  when  Hall — who,  after 
his  sentence,  had  been  taken  away  for  safe-keeping, 
was  brought  back  to  the  county-seat  for  execution — 

269 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

there  was  the  Red  Fox  in  the  adjoining  cell  of  the  same 
cage  whose  door  was  to  close  on  Hall.  And  as  Hall 
passed,  the  Red  Fox  thrust  out  a  freckled  paw  to 
shake  hands,  but  Hall  struck  at  him  with  his  manacles 
and  cursed  him  bitterly.  And  in  those  cells  the  two 
enemies  waited — the  one  for  the  scaffold  that  both 
could  hear  building  outside,  and  the  other  for  the  trial 
that  was  to  put  his  feet  on  the  same  trap-door.  The 
Red  Fox  swung  in  a  hammock,  reading  his  Bible  by 
day  and  having  visions  at  night,  which  he  would  inter- 
pret to  me,  when  I  was  on  Hall's  death-watch,  as  signs 
of  his  own  innocence  and  his  final  freedom  among  the 
hills.  Nothing  delighted  Hall  more,  meanwhile,  at 
that  time,  than  to  torture  his  old  enemy. 

"  I  know  I'm  purty  bad,"  he  would  say — "  but 
thar's  lots  wuss  men  than  me  in  the  world — old  Doc 
in  thar,  for  instance."  For  "  old  Doc  "  by  virtue  of 
his  herb  practice  was  his  name  as  well  as  the  Red  Fox 
of  the  Mountains.  And  the  old  Fox  would  go  on  read- 
ing his  Bible. 

Then  Hall  would  say : 

"  Oh,  thar  ain't  nothin'  twixt  ole  Doc  and  me — 
'cept  this  iron  wall,"  and  he  would  kick  the  thin  wall 
so  savagely  that  the  Red  Fox  would  pray  unavailingly 
to  be  removed  to  another  part  of  the  jail. 

And  when  the  day  of  Hall's  execution  came,  he  got 
270 


The  Red  Fox  of  the  Mountains 

humble  and  kissed  the  first  lieutenant's  hand — and  he 
forgave  the  Red  Fox  and  asked  to  kiss  him.  And  the 
Red  Fox  gave  him  the  Judas-kiss  through  the  grating 
of  his  cell-door  and,  when  Hall  marched  out,  took  out 
his  watch  and  stood  by  the  cell-door  listening  eagerly. 
Presently  the  fall  of  the  trap-door  echoed  through  the 
jail — "  Th-o-o-m-p!  "  The  Red  Fox  glued  his  eyes 
to  the  watch  in  his  hand.  The  second  hand  went  twice 
around  its  circuit  and  he  snapped  the  lid  and  gave  a 
deep  sigh  of  relief: 

"  "Well,  he's  gone  now,"  said  the  Red  Fox,  and  he 
went  back  in  peace  to  his  hammock  and  his  Bible. 

The  Red  Fox  was  no  seer  in  truth,  and  his  inter- 
pretations of  his  own  visions  proved  him  no  prophet. 

And  so,  finally,  where  Hall  had  stood,  the  Red 
Fox  of  the  Mountains  was  standing  now,  and  where,  in 
answer  to  the  last  question  of  the  Judge,  Hall  had  sat 
in  sullen  silence,  the  Red  Fox  rose  to  ask,  that  a  friend 
might  speak  for  him — startling  the  court-room: 

"  Jesus  Christ." 

Thereupon,  of  course,  the  Red  Fox  lifted  a  Bible 
from  the  desk  before  him  and  for  one  half  hour  read 
verses  that  bore  on  his  own  innocence  and  burned  with 
fire  and  damnation  for  his  enemies.  The  plea  was 
useless.     Useless  was  the  silent,  eloquent,  piteous  plea 

271 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

of  the  little  old  woman  in  black  who  sat  near  him. 
The  Red  Fox  was  doomed. 

The  guard  down  at  "  the  Gap  "  had  done  its  duty 
with  Talton  Hall,  but  it  was  the  policy  of  the  guard 
to  let  the  natives  uphold  the  law  whenever  they  would 
and  C(Ould;  and  so  the  guard  went  home  to  the  Gap 
while  the  natives  policed  the  jail  and  kept  old  Doc 
safe.  To  be  sure,  little  care  was  necessary,  for  the 
Red  Fox  did  not  have  the  friends  who  would  have 
flocked  to  the  rescue  of  Talton  Hall. 

That  funeral  sermon  was  preached  on  the  Sunday 
before  the  day,  and  a  curious  crowd  gathered  to  hear 
him.  The  Red  Fox  was  led  from  the  jail;  he  stood 
on  the  porch  of  the  jailer's  house  with  a  little  table  in 
front  of  him;  on  it  lay  a  Bible;  on  the  other  side  of 
the  table  sat  a  little,  pale-faced,  old  woman  in  black, 
with  a  black  sunbonnet  drawn  close  to  her  face.  By 
the  side  of  the  Bible  lay  a  few  pieces  of  bread.  It 
was  the  Red  Fox's  last  communion  on  earth — a  com- 
munion which  he  administered  to  himself  and  in  which 
there  was  no  other  soul  on  earth  to  join,  except  the 
little  old  woman  in  black. 

It  was  pathetic  beyond  words,  when  the  old  fellow 
lifted  the  bread  and  asked  the  crowd  to  come  forward 
to  partake  with  him  in  the  last  sacrament.  Not  a 
soul  moved.  Only  the  little  old  woman  who  had 
been  ill-treated,  deserted  by  the  old  fellow  for  many 

2']2 


The  Red  Fox  of  the  Mountains 

years ;  only  she  of  all  the  crowd  gave  any  answer,  and 
she  turned  her  face  for  one  instant  timidly  toward 
him.  With  a  churlish  gesture  the  old  man  pushed  the 
bread  over  toward  her,  and  with  hesitating,  trem- 
bling fingers  she  reached  for  it. 

The  sermon  that  followed  was  rambling,  denuncia- 
tory, and  unforgiving.     Never  did  he  admit  guilt. 

On  the  last  day,  the  Red  Fox  appeared  in  his  white 
suit  of  tablecloth.  The  little  old  woman  in  black 
had  even  made  the  cap  which  was  to  be  drawn  over 
his  face  at  the  last  moment — and  she  had  made  that, 
too,  of  white.  He  walked  firmly  to  the  scafFold-steps 
and  stood  there  for  one  moment  blinking  in  the  sun- 
light, his  head  just  visible  over  the  rude  box,  some 
twenty  feet  square,  that  surrounded  him — a  rude  con- 
trivance to  shield  the  scene  of  his  death.  For  one 
moment  he  looked  at  the  sky  and  the  trees  with  a 
face  that  was  white  and  absolutely  expressionless; 
then  he  sang  one  hymn  of  two  verses.  The  white  cap 
was  drawn,  and  the  strange  old  man  was  launched  on 
the  way  to  that  world  in  which  he  believed  so  firmly, 
and  toward  which  he  had  trod  so  strange  a  way  on 
earth. 

The  little  old  woman  in  black,  as  he  wished,  had 
the  body  kept  for  three  days,  unburied.  His  ghost, 
the  mountaineer!^  say,  walks  lonely  paths  of  the  Cum- 
berland to  this  day,  but — the  Red  Fox  never  rose. 

273 


Man-Hunting  in  the  Pound 


Man-Hunting  in  the  Pound 

THE  pale  lad  from  the  Pound  was  telling  news 
to  an  eager  circle  of  men  just  outside  the  open 
window  of  the  little  mountain-hotel,  and,  in- 
side, I  dropped  knife  and  fork  to  listen.  The  wily  old 
"  Daddy  "  of  the  Fleming  boys  had  been  captured; 
the  sons  were  being  hemmed  in  that  very  day,  and  a 
fight  between  sheriff's  posse  and  outlaws  was  likely 
any  hour. 

Ten  minutes  later  I  was  astride  a  gray  mule,  and 
with  an  absurd  little  .32  Smith  &  Wesson  popgun  on 
my  hip — the  only  weapon  I  could  find  in  town — was 
on  my  way  to  the  Pound. 

Our  volunteer  police-guard  down  at  "  The  Gap," 
twenty  miles  away,  was  very  anxious  to  capture  those 
Fleming  boys.  Talton  Hall,  feud-leader  and  des- 
perado, had  already  been  hanged,  and  so  had  his  bitter 
enemy,  the  Red  Fox  of  the  Mountains.  With  the 
Fleming  outlaws  brought  to  justice,  the  fight  of  the 
guard  for  law  and  order  was  about  won.     And  so,  as 

^77 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

I  was  a  member  of  that  guard,  it  behooved  me  to 
hurry — which  I  did. 

The  Gap  is  in  the  southwestern  corner  of  old  Vir- 
ginia, and  is  a  ragged  gash  down  through  the  Cumber- 
land Mountains  to  the  water  level  of  a  swift  stream 
that  there  runs  through  a  mountain  of  limestone  and 
between  beds  of  iron  ore  and  beds  of  coking  coal. 
That  is  why  some  threescore  young  fellows  gathered 
there  from  Blue-grass  Kentucky  and  Tide-water  Vir- 
ginia not  many  years  ago,  to  dig  their  fortunes  out  of 
the  earth.  Nearly  all  were  college  graduates,  and  all 
were  high-spirited,  adventurous  and  well-born.  They 
proposed  to  build  a  town  and,  incidentally,  to  make 
cheaper  and  better  iron  there  than  was  made  anywhere 
else  on  the  discovered  earth. 

A  "  boom  "  came.  The  labor  and  capital  question 
was  solved  instantly,  for  every  man  in  town  was 
straightway  a  capitalist.  You  couldn't  get  a  door 
hung — every  carpenter  was  a  meteoric  Napoleon  of 
finance.  Every  young  blood  in  town  rode  Blue-grass 
saddle-horses  and  ate  eight-o'clock  dinners — making 
many  dollars  each  day  and  having  high  jinks  o'  nights 
at  the  club,  which,  if  you  please,  entertained,  besides 
others  of  distinction,  a  duke  and  duchess  who  had 
wearily  eluded  the  hospitality  of  New  York.     The 

278 


Man-Hunting  in  the  Pound 

woods  were  full  of  aristocrats  and  plutocrats — Ameri- 
can and  English.  The  world  itself  seemed  to  be  mov- 
ing that  way,  and  the  Gap  stretched  its  jaws  wide  with 
a  grin  of  welcome.  Later,  you  could  get  a  door  hung, 
but  here  I  draw  the  veil.  It  was  magnificent,  but  it 
was  not  business. 

At  the  high  tide,  even,  the  Gap  was,  however,  some- 
thing of  a  hell-hole  for  several  reasons;  and  the  clash 
of  contrasts  was  striking.  The  Kentucky  feudsmen 
would  chase  each  other  there,  now  and  then,  from  over 
Black  Mountain ;  and  the  toughs  on  the  Virginia  side 
would  meet  there  on  Saturdays  to  settle  little  differ- 
ences of  opinion  and  sentiment.  They  would  quite 
take  the  town  sometimes — riding  through  the  streets, 
yelling  and  punctuating  the  sign  of  our  one  hotel  with 
pistol-bullet  periods  to  this  refrain: 

G.r.a.n.d  C.e.n.t.r.a.l  H.o.t.e.l 

Hell  I     Hell!     Hell! 

— keeping  time,  meanwhile,  like  darkies  in  a  hoe- 
down.  Or,  a  single  horseman  might  gallop  down  one 
of  our  wooden  sidewalks,  with  his  reins  between  his 
teeth,  and  firing  into  the  ground  with  a  revolver  in 
each  hand.  All  that,  too,  was  magnificent,  but  it  was 
not  business.  The  people  who  kept  store  would  have 
to  close  up  and  take  to  the  woods. 

279 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

And  thus  arose  a  unique  organization — a  volunteer 
police-guard  of  gentlemen,  who  carried  pistol,  billy, 
and  whistle,  and  did  a  policeman's  work — ^hewing 
always  strictly  to  the  line  of  the  law. 

The  result  was  rather  extraordinary.  The  Gap 
soon  became  the  only  place  south  of  Mason  and 
Dixon's  line,  perhaps,  where  a  street  fight  of  five 
minutes'  duration,  or  a  lynching,  was  impossible.  A 
yell,  a  pistol-shot,  or  the  sight  of  a  drunken  man,  be- 
came a  rare  occurrence.  Local  lawlessness  thus  sub- 
dued, the  guard  extended  its  benign  influence — creat- 
ing in  time  a  public  sentiment  fearless  enough  to 
convict  a  desperado,  named  Talt  Hall;  and,  guarding 
him  from  rescue  by  his  Kentucky  clansmen  for  one 
month  at  the  county-seat,  thus  made  possible  the  first 
hanging  that  mountain-region  had  ever  known. 

After  that  the  natives,  the  easy-going,  tolerant 
good  people,  caught  the  fever  for  law  and  order,  for, 
like  lawlessness,  law,  too,  is  contagious.  It  was  they 
who  guarded  the  Red  Fox,  Hall's  enemy,  to  the 
scaffold,  and  it  was  they  who  had  now  taken  up  our 
hunt  for  the  Red  Fox's  accomplices — the  Fleming 
outlaws  of  the  Pound. 

We  were  anxious  to  get  those  boys — they  had 
evaded  and  mocked  us  so  long.  Usually  they  lived  in 
a  cave,  but  lately  they  had  grown  quite  "  tame." 

280 


Man-Hunting  in  the  Pound 

From  working  in  the  fields,  dressed  in  women's  clothes, 
they  got  to  staying  openly  at  home  and  lounging 
around  a  cross-roads  store  at  the  Pound.  They  even 
had  the  impudence  to  vote  for  a  sheriff  and  a  county 
judge.  They  levied  on  their  neighbors  for  food  and 
clothes,  and  so  bullied  and  terrorized  the  Pound  that 
nobody  dared  to  deny  them  whatever  they  asked,  or 
dared  to  attempt  an  arrest.  At  last,  they  got  three  or 
four  recruits,  and  tying  red  strips  of  flannel  to  their 
shoulders  and  Winchesters,  drilled  in  the  county  road, 
mocking  our  drill  at  the  county-seat  when  we  were 
guarding  Talton  Hall. 

This  taunt  was  a  little  too  much,  and  so  we  climbed 
on  horseback  late  one  afternoon,  wrapped  our  guns  in 
overcoats,  and  started  out  for  an  all-night  ride,  only  to 
be  turned  back  again  at  the  foot  of  Black  Mountain 
by  our  captain  and  first  lieutenant,  who  had  gone  over 
ahead  of  us  as  spies.  The  outlaws  were  fighting 
among  themselves;  one  man  was  killed,  and  we  must 
wait  until  they  got  "  tame  "  again. 

A  few  weeks  later  the  guard  rode  over  again, 
dashed  into  the  Fleming  cabin  at  daybreak  and  capt- 
ured a  houseful  of  screaming  women  and  children 
— ^to  the  great  disgust  of  the  guard  and  to  the  great 
humor  of  the  mountaineers,  who  had  heard  of  our 
coming  and  gone  off,  dancing,  down  the  road  only  an 

281 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

hour  before.  It  was  then  that  the  natives,  emulating 
our  example,  took  up  the  search.  They  were  doing 
the  work  now,  and  it  was  my  great  luck  to  be  the 
only  member  of  the  guard  who  knew  what  was 
going  on. 

The  day  was  hot,  the  road  dusty,  and  the  gray  mule 
was  slow.  "Within  two  hours  I  was  at  the  head  of  the 
Pound — a  wild,  beautiful,  lawless  region  that  har- 
bored the  desperadoes  of  Virginia  and  Kentucky,  who 
could  do  mischief  in  either  State  and  step  to  refuge 
across  the  line.  Far  ahead,  I  could  see  a  green  dip  in 
the  mountains  where  the  Red  Fox  and  the  Fleming 
boys  had  shot  the  Mullins  family  of  moonshiners  to 
death  from  ambush  one  sunny  morning  in  May. 

Below,  sparkled  Pound  River  roaring  over  a  mill- 
day,  and  by  the  roadside,  as  I  went  down,  I  found  the 
old  miller  alone.  The  posse  of  natives  had  run  upon 
the  Flemings  that  morning,  he  said,  and  the  outlaws, 
after  a  sharp  fight,  had  escaped — wounded.  The 
sheriff  was  in  charge  of  the  searching  party,  and  he 
believed  that  the  Flemings  would  be  caught  now,  for 
sure. 

"Which  way?  "I  asked. 

The  old  fellow  pointed  down  a  twisting,  sunlit 
ravine,  dense  with  woods,  and  I  rode  down  the  dim 

282 


Man-Hunting  in  the  Pound 

creek  that  twisted  through  it.  Half  an  hour  later  I 
struck  a  double  log-cabin  with  quilts  hanging  in  its 
windows — which  was  unusual.  An  old  woman  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway — a  tall,  majestic  old  tigress, 
with  head  thrown  back  and  a  throat  so  big  that  it 
looked  as  though  she  had  a  goitre. 

"Who  lives  here?" 

"  The  Flemingses  lives  hjeh,"  she  said,  quietly. 

I  was  startled.  I  had  struck  the  outlaws'  cabin  by 
chance,  and  so,  to  see  what  I  might  learn,  I  swung 
from  the  gray  mule  and  asked  for  a  glass  of  butter- 
milk. A  handsome  girl  of  twenty,  a  Fleming  sister, 
with  her  dress  open  at  the  throat,  stepped  from  the 
door  and  started  to  the  spring-house.  Through  the 
door  I  could  see  another  woman — wife  of  one  of  the 
outlaws — ill,  A  "  base-bom  "  child  toddled  toward 
me,  and  a  ten-year-old  boy — a  Fleming  brother — with 
keen  eyes  and  a  sullen  face,  lay  down  near  me — 
watching  me,  like  a  snake  in  the  grass. 

The  old  woman  brought  out  a  chair  and  lighted  a 
pipe. 

"  Whar  air  ye  from,  and  what  mought  yo'  name 
be?"       ' 

I  evaded  half  the  inquiry. 

"  I  come  from  the  Blue-grass,  but  I'm  living  at  the 
Gap  just  now."     She  looked  at  me  keenly,  as  did  the 

283 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

snake  in  the  grass,  and  I  turned  my  chair  so  that  I 
could  watch  that  boy. 

"  Was  you  over  hyeh  that  night  when  them  fellows 
from  the  Gap  run  in  on  us?  " 

"  No." 

The  old  woman*8  big  throat  shook  with  quiet 
laughter.  The  girl  laughed  and  the  woman  through 
the  door  laughed  in  her  apron,  but  the  boy's  face 
moved  not  a  muscle.  It  was  plain  that  we  had  no 
monopoly  of  the  humor  of  that  daybreak  dash  into  a 
house  full  of  women  and  children. 

"  One  fool  feller  stuck  his  head  up  into  the  loft  and 
lit  a  match  to  see  if  my  boys  was  up  thar.  Lit  a 
match!  He  wouldn't  'a'  had  no  head  ef  they  had 
been."     She  laughed  again,  and  drew  on  her  pipe. 

"  I  give  'em  coffee,"  she  went  on,  "  while  they 
waited  for  my  boys  to  come  back,  an'  all  I  axed  'em 
was  not  to  hurt  'em  if  they  could  help  it."  Then  she 
broached  the  point  at  issue  herself. 

"  I  s'pose  you've  heerd  about  the  fight  this 
mornin'  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  reckon  you  know  my  boys  is  hurt — ^mebbe 
they're  dead  in  the  woods  somewhar  now."  She 
spoke  with  little  sadness  and  with  no  animus  what- 
ever.    There  was  no  use  trying  to  conceal  my  purpose 

284 


Man-Hunting  in  the  Pound 

down  there — I  saw  that  at  once — and  I  got  up  to 
leave.  She  would  not  let  me  pay  for  the  butter- 
milk. 

"  Ef  you  git  hold  of  'em — I  wish  you  wouldn't 
harm  'em,"  she  said,  as  I  climbed  on  the  gray  mule, 
and  I  promised  her  that  if  they  were  caught  un- 
harmed, no  fiu"ther  harm  should  come  to  them;  and  I 
rode  away,  the  group  sitting  motionless  and  watching 
me. 

For  two  hours  I  ambled  along  the  top  of  a  spur,  on 
a  pretty  shaded  road  with  precipitous  woods  on  each 
side,  and  now  and  then  an  occasional  cabin,  but  not  a 
human  being  was  in  sight — not  for  long.  Sometimes 
I  would  see  a  figure  flitting  around  a  comer  of  a  cabin; 
sometimes  a  door  would  open  a  few  inches  and  close 
quickly;  and  I  knew  the  whole  region  was  terrorized. 
For  two  hours  I  rode  on  through  the  sunhght  and 
beauty  of  those  lonely  hills,  and  then  I  came  on  a 
crowd  of  mountaineers  all  armed  with  Winchesters, 
and  just  emerging  from  a  cabin  by  the  roadside.  It 
was  one  division  of  the  searching  party,  and  I  joined 
them.  They  were  much  amused  when  they  saw  the 
Christmas  toy  with  which  I  was  armed. 

"  S'pose  one  o'  the  Flemings  had  stepped  out'n  the 
bushes  an'  axed  ye  what  ye  was  doin'  down  hyeh — 
what  would  ye  'a'  said  ?  " 

285 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

That  might  have  been  embarrassing,  and  I  had  to 
laugh.     I  really  had  not  thought  of  that. 

One  man  showed  me  the  Winchester  they  had  capt- 
ured— Heenan's  gun.  Tied  to  the  meat-house  and 
leaping  against  a  rope-tether  was  a  dog — which,  too, 
they  had  captured — Heenan'g  dog.  As  we  started  out 
the  yard  "  Gooseneck  "  John  Branham,  with  a  look 
of  disgust  at  my  pistol,  whipped  out  one  of  his  own — 
some  two  feet  long — for  me  to  swing  on  my  other  hip. 
Another  fellow  critically  took  in  my  broad-brim  straw 
hat. 

"  Hell!  "  he  said.  "  That  won't  do.  They  can  see 
that  a  mile  through  the  woods.  I'll  get  ye  a  hat." 
And  he  went  back  into  the  cabin  and  brought  out  a 
faded  slouch-hat. 

"  That's  Heenan's!  "  he  said.  That,  too,  they  had 
captured. 

And  so  I  wore  Heenan's  hat — ^looking  for  Heenan. 

Half  a  mile  down  the  road  we  stepped  aside 
twenty  yards  into  the  bushes.  There  was  the  cave  in 
which  the  outlaws  had  lived.  There  were  in  it  several 
blankets,  a  little  bag  of  meal,  and  some  bits  of  ham. 
Right  by  the  side  of  the  road  was  a  huge  pile  of  shav- 
ings, where  the  two  outlaws  had  whittled  away  many 
a  sunny  hour.     Half  an  hour  on,  down  a  deep  ravine 

286 


Man-Hunting  in  the  Pound 

and  up  a  long  slope,  and  we  were  on  a  woody  knoll 
where  the  fight  had  taken  place  that  morning.  The 
little  trees  looked  as  though  a  Gatling  gun  had  been 
turned  loose  on  them. 

The  posse  had  found  out  where  the  Flemings  were, 
the  night  before,  by  capturing  the  old  Fleming  mother 
while  she  was  carrying  them  a  bag  of  pro\asions.  As 
they  lay  in  the  brush,  she  had  come  along,  tossing 
stones  into  the  bushes  to  attract  the  attention  of  her 
sons.  One  of  the  men  had  clicked  the  slide  of  hia 
Winchester,  and  the  poor  old  woman,  thinking  that 
was  the  signal  from  one  of  her  boys,  walked  toward 
them,  and  they  caught  her  and  kept  her  prisoner  all 
night  in  the  woods.  Under  her  apron,  they  found  the 
little  fellow  who  had  lain  like  a  snake  in  the  grass 
beside  me  back  at  the  cabin,  and,  during  the  night,  he 
had  slipped  away  and  escaped  and  gone  back  to  the 
county-seat,  twenty  miles  away,  on  foot,  to  tell  his 
father,  who  was  a  prisoner  there,  what  was  taking 
place  at  home. 

At  daybreak,  when  the  posse  was  closing  in  on  the 
Flemings,  the  old  woman  sprang  suddenly  to  her  feet 
and  shouted  shrilly:  "Run  down  the  holler,  boys; 
run  down  the  holler!  " 

The  ways  of  rude  men,  naturally,  are  not  gentle, 
and  the  sheriff  sprang  out  and  caught  the  old  woman 

287 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

by  the  throat  and  choked  her  cries;  and  they  led  her 
to  the  rear — weeping  and  wringing  her  hands. 

A  few  minutes  later,  as  the  men  slipped  forward 
through  the  woods  and  mist,  they  came  upon  the 
Flemings  crouched  in  the  bushes,  and  each  creeping 
for  a  tree.  "  Gooseneck  "  John  Branham — so  called 
because  of  the  length  of  his  neck — Doc  Swindall  and 
Ed  Hall  opened  fire.  For  twenty  minutes  those  two 
Fleming  boys  fought  twenty-two  men  fiercely. 

"  Just  looked  like  one  steady  flame  was  a-comin'  out 
o'  each  man's  Winchester  all  the  time,"  said  Branham, 
pointing  to  two  bullet-pecked  trees  behind  which  the 
outlaws  had  stood.  "  I  was  behind  this  birch,"  laying 
his  hand  on  a  tree  as  big  as  his  thigh,  and  pointing  out 
where  the  Flemings  had  drilled  three  bullet-holes  in  it 
between  his  neck  and  his  waistband. 

"  I  seed  Jim  Hale  pokin'  his  gun  around  this  hyeh 
tree  and  pumpin'  it  off  inter  the  ground,"  said  Hall, 
"  an'  I  couldn't  shoot  for  laughin'." 

"  Well,"  said  Swindall,  "  I  was  tryin'  to  git  in  a 
shot  from  the  oak  there,  and  something  struck  me  and 
knocked  me  out  in  the  bushes.  I  looked  around,  and 
damn  me  if  there  wasn't  seven  full-grown  men  behind 
my  tree." 

It  had  evidently  been  quite  warm  for  a  while,  until 
Branham  caught  Heenan  in  the  shoulder  with  a  load 

288 


Man-Hunting  in  the  Pound 

of  buckshot.  Heenan's  hat  went  off,  his  gun  dropped 
to  his  feet ;  he  cried  simply : 

"  Oh you!  "     Then  he  ran. 

Cal  Fleming,  too,  ran  then,  and  the  posse  fired  after 
them.  The  dog,  curiously  enough,  lay  where  he  had 
lain  during  the  fight,  at  the  base  of  Heenan's  tree — 
and  so  hat,  dog,  and  gun  were  captured.  I  had  won- 
dered why  the  posse  had  not  pursued  the  Flemings 
after  wounding  them,  and  I  began  to  understand. 
They  were  so  elated  at  having  been  in  a  fight  and  come 
out  safe,  that  they  stopped  to  cook  breakfast,  gather 
mementoes,  and  talk  it  all  over. 

Ten  minutes  later  we  were  at  the  cabin,  where  the 
fugitives  had  stopped  to  get  some  coffee. 

"  They  was  pretty  badly  hurt,  I  reckon,"  said  the 
woman  who  had  given  them  something  to  eat. 
"  Heenan's  shoulder  was  all  shot  up,  an'  I  reckon  I 
could  git  my  hand  into  a  hole  in  Cal's  back.  Cal  was 
groanin'  a  good  deal,  an'  had  to  lay  down  every  ten 
yards." 

We  went  on  hurriedly,  and  in  an  hour  we  struck  the 
main  body  of  the  searching  party,  and  as  soon  as  the 
sheriff  saw  me,  he  came  running  forward.  Now,  the 
guard  at  the  Gap  had  such  a  reputation  that  any  mem- 
ber of  it  was  supposed  to  be  past-master  in  the  conduct 
of  such  matters  as  were  now  pending.     He  immedi- 

289 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

ately  called  me  "  Captain,"  and  asked  me  to  take 
charge  of  the  party.  I  looked  round  at  them,  and  I 
politely  veered  from  the  honor.  Such  a  tough-looking 
gang  it  has  rarely  been  my  good  luck  to  see,  and  I 
had  little  doubt  that  many  of  them  were  worse  than 
the  Fleming  boys.  One  tall  fellow  particularly  at- 
tracted my  attention;  he  was  fully  six  and  one-half 
feet  high;  he  was  very  slender,  and  his  legs  and  arms 
were  the  longest  I  have  ever  seen  swung  to  a  human 
frame.  He  had  sandy  hair,  red  eyes,  high  cheek- 
bones, and  on  each  cheek  was  a  diminutive  boil. 
About  his  waist  was  strapped  a  huge  revolver,  and  to 
the  butt  of  this  pistol  was  tied  a  big  black  bow-ribbon 
— tied  there,  no  doubt,  by  his  sweetheart,  as  a  badge 
of  death  or  destruction  to  his  enemies.  He  looked  me 
over  calmly. 

"  Hev  you  ever  searched  for  a  dead  man? "  he  asked 
deeply. 

It  was  humiliating  to  have  to  confess  it  in  that 
crowd,  but  I  had  not — not  then. 

"  "Well,  I  hev,"  he  said,  significantly. 

I  had  little  doubt,  and  for  one,  perhaps,  of  his  own 
killing. 

In  the  hollow  just  below  us  was  the  cabin  of  Par- 
son Swindall — a  friend  of  the  Flemings.  The  parson 
thought  the  outlaws  dying  or  dead,  and  he  knew  the 

290 


Man-Hunting  in  the  Pound 

cave  to  which  they  must  have  dragged  themselves  to 
die.  If  I  got  permission  from  the  old  Fleming 
mother,  he  would  guide  me,  he  said,  to  the  spot.  I 
sent  back  a  messenger,  promising  that  the  bodies  of  her 
sons  should  not  be  touched,  if  they  were  dead,  nor 
should  they  be  further  harmed  if  they  were  still  alive. 
The  fierce  old  woman's  answer  came  back  in  an  hour. 
J      "  She'd  ruther  they  rotted  out  in  the  woods." 

N"ext  morning  I  stretched  the  men  out  in  a  long 
line,  thirty  feet  apart,  and  we  started  on  the  search.  I 
had  taken  one  man  and  spent  the  night  in  the  parson's 
cabin  hoping  that,  if  only  wounded,  the  Flemings 
might  slip  in  for  something  to  eat;  but  I  had  a  sleep- 
less, useless  night.  Indeed,  the  search  had  only  a 
mild  interest  and  no  excitement.  We  climbed 
densely  thicketed  hills,  searched  ravines,  rocks,  caves, 
swam  the  river  backward  and  fonv^ard,  tracking  sus- 
picious footsteps  in  the  mud  and  through  the  woods. 
I  had  often  read  of  pioneer  woodcraft,  and  I  learned, 
during  these  three  days,  that  the  marvellous  skill  of  it 
still  survives  in  the  Southern  mountains. 

It  was  dangerous  work;  dangerous  for  the  man  who 
should  run  upon  the  outlaws,  since  these  would  be 
lying  still  to  hear  anyone  approach  them,  and  would 
thus  "  have  the  drop  "  from  ambush.     Once,  to  be 

291 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

Bure,  we  came  near  a  tragedy.  At  one  parting  of  two 
roads  several  of  us  stopped  to  decide  whicli  road  we 
should  take.  At  that  moment  the  Fleming  boys  were 
lying  in  the  bushes  twenty  yards  away,  with  their 
Winchesters  cocked  and  levelled  at  us  over  a  log,  and 
only  waiting  for  us  to  turn  up  that  path  to  open  fire. 
As  I  was  told  afterward,  Heenan,  very  naturally,  had 
his  Winchester  pointed  on  his  hat,  which,  at  that 
moment,  was  on  my  head.  By  a  lucky  chance  I 
decided  to  take  the  other  path.  Otherwise,  I  should 
hardly  be  writing  these  lines  to-day. 

For  three  days  we  searched,  only  to  learn,  or  rather 
to  be  told,  which  was  not  the  truth,  that,  in  women's 
dress,  the  Flemings  had  escaped  over  into  Kentucky. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  lay  two  weeks  in  a  cave,  Cal 
flat  on  his  back  and  letting  the  water  from  the  roof  of 
the  cave  drip,  hour  by  hour,  on  a  frightful  wound  in 
his  breast. 

For  several  months  they  went  uncaptured,  until 
finally  three  of  the  men  who  were  with  me,  "  Goose- 
neck "  John  Branham,  Ed  Hall,  and  Doc  Swindall, 
located  them  over  the  border  in  West  Virginia.  Of 
course  a  big  reward  was  offered  for  each,  or  they  were 
"  rewarded,"  as  the  mountaineers  say.  The  three 
men  closed  in  on  them  in  a  little  store  one  morning. 
'  292 


Man-Hunting  in  the  Pound 

Cal  Fleming  was  reading  a  letter  when  the  three 
surged  in  at  the  door,  and  Hall,  catching  Cal  by  the 
lapel  of  his  coat,  said  quietly: 

"  You  are  my  prisoner." 

Cal  sprang  back  to  break  the  hold,  and  Hall  shot 
him  through  the  breast,  killing  him  outright. 
Heenan,  who  was  not  thought  to  be  dangerous,  sprang 
at  the  same  instant  ten  feet  away,  and  his  first  shot 
caught  Hall  in  the  back  of  the  head,  dropping  the 
officer  to  his  knees.  Thinking  he  had  done  for  Hall, 
Heenan  turned  on  Branham  and  Swindall,  and  shot 
Branham  through  both  lungs  and  Swindall  through 
the  neck — dropping  both  to  the  floor.  This  left  the 
duel  between  Hall  on  his  knees  and  Heenan.  At  last 
a  lucky  shot  from  Hall's  pistol  struck  Heenan's  pistol 
hand,  lacerating  the  fingers  and  making  him  drop  his 
weapon.  Heenan  ran  into  the  back  room  then,  and, 
finding  no  egress,  reappeared  in  the  doorway,  with  his 
bloody  hands  above  his  head. 

"  Well,  Ed,"  he  said,  simply,  "  I  can't  do  no  more." 

Six  months  later  Heenan  Fleming  was  brought 
back  to  the  county-seat  to  be  tried  for  his  life,  and  I 
felt  sure  that  he  would  meet  his  end  on  the  scaffold 
where  Talton  Hall  and  Red  Fox  had  suffered  death. 

As  he  sat  there  in  the  prisoner's  box,  his  face  pale 
29^ 


Blue-grass  and  Rhododendron 

and  flecked  with  powder,  I  could  see  a  sunken  spot  in 
his  jaw,  through  which  one  of  Hall's  bullets  had  gone, 
and  his  bright,  black  eyes  gleamed  fire.  I  stepped  up 
to  him.  I  thought  there  was  no  chance  of  his  escap- 
ing the  gallows;  but,  if  he  did  escape,  I  wanted  to  be 
as  friendly  with  him  as  possible. 

"  Heenan,"  I  said,  "  did  you  ever  get  your  hat 
back? " 

« 1^0,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  if  you  come  clear,  go  up  to  the  store  and  get 
the  best  hat  in  the  house,  and  have  it  charged  to  me." 

Heenan  smiled. 

Now,  by  a  curious  chance,  the  woman  on  whose  tes- 
timony the  Red  Fox  had  been  hanged,  had  died  mean- 
while. Some  people  said  she  had  been  purposely  put 
out  of  the  way  to  avoid  further  testimony.  At  any 
rate,  through  her  death,  Heenan  did  come  clear,  and 
the  last  time  I  saw  him,  he  was  riding  out  of  the  town 
on  a  mule,  with  his  baby  in  front  of  him  and  on  his 
head  a  brand-new  derby  hat — mine. 


394 


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\^\^^ 


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F83  Fox 

Blua«gxte  s  s 

and 
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JUL  12»52 


3  1158  00575  9906 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  029  389    2 


mm 


